In Media Res
by MoonMargaret
Summary: In the beginning, he was trapped. In the end, he would be free or he would be dead. But for Merlin, the secret sorcerer, and for Arthur, the king who doesn't understand, being stuck in the middle is the worst place to be. And yet, at least they are not stuck alone. * A series of one-shot reveal fics* *Can all be read separately*
1. Scenario I

**Disclaimer: **_**Merlin**_** is not mine**.

As time passed and Arthur grew into his role as king of Camelot, he found himself disagreeing more and more with the state in which Uther had left the kingdom. There were laws that required modification, he felt. Roads that needed repair. Monies to be collected. Collected monies not to be wasted on unnecessary frivolities. Necessary frivolities that needed celebrating. He loved his father and he respected the way in which Uther had established a functioning rule, but there were a great deal of changes that Arthur had to make.

Some of the changes pained him, both in the knowledge that what is needed is not always going to be popular and in the fact that with every alteration, he was diluting what was left of his father in his everyday life. Other changes, however, were just fun and, as he firmly believed, for the benefit of all persons involved.

One such change was in the installation of the round table.

There had been some mutterings of dissent when he'd gotten rid of the long wooden table that had run the length of the council chamber for as long as anyone could remember. Even Arthur had to admit that the room did not feel as though it had been built with a single large circular table in mind. It was more of an experiment than anything of absolute permanence, and he only hoped that they would all adjust to the change in atmosphere. He liked the round table too much to easily revert to the rectangular table. They could always just change rooms for council meetings…

The good thing about the round table being _round,_ he'd found, was that he was not always the focal point. There were more things for the others to look at that just up at him. Many of the members of his council—particularly those that he'd inherited from Uther's time as king—seemed to be under the impression that, if Arthur was seated at the head of a long table, he would begin ordering the executions of any man who did not pay _him_ absolute attention. With a round table, everyone had a clear view of any speaker, and due attention could be paid. Plus, with all of the rest of them shifting their gazes rather than training them at _him_ at all times, he had a great deal more freedom to make himself comfortable. He hadn't realized how much more tolerable council meetings could be if he had the chance to lean his elbows on the table every once in a while, or to slouch in his chair, or to tap his fingers, or to stare at the ceiling and try to count the stones. Especially on days such as _this,_ when he was stuck in a council meeting with the old men who advised him on matters bureaucratic and architectural and...floral. None of his knights were needed for _this_ meeting, and all of them were smart enough to stay away.

Someone was speaking. Without looking, Arthur wasn't sure who it was. He wasn't sure that it really mattered.

"…and a portion of the budget must be allotted to modifying the roads in the lower town. I have been told that some of the _cobblestones_ have grown _loose_ in recent years. I therefore propose that we immediately…"

Plus, the table promoted equality and respect for fellow man. There was also that.

He'd been nervous when he'd made the decision. It hadn't taken him very long as king to discover that his council members were far more open to changes that were more…modifications than they were introductions. Or removals. The switch of the traditional table to one round was sure to ruffle a few of the more custom-dedicated feathers. His wife had given her whole-hearted support, and even Merlin had been excited when Arthur had shared with them his plan. Granted, Guinevere's enthusiasm had waned somewhat when she'd found that she'd be the only woman on the council of traditional old men—which Arthur felt should not have been particularly surprising to her—and Merlin had affected quite the offended silent treatment when he learned that he'd be standing _behind_ the table with a pitcher in hand rather than sitting before it with any say.

Arthur had almost felt guilty about that. Merlin _had_ been there when he'd first gathered subjects at a round table, and of those original supporters, only he and Lancelot were excluded from Arthur's new full council. He supposed that Merlin might have felt differently and been less distinctly offended if the reason why Lancelot had been excluded was for some other reason than being rather too deceased for participation.

"…it seems that you think that this is a matter to be treated lightly like you did with the _fencing_ _fiasco_ of five years past—do not think, sir_,_ that we have forgotten—you must remember that proper measurements must be taken to ensure that all _new_ cobblestones completely match the preexisting cobblestones in size and texture before they…"

But Merlin was a servant, and Arthur could only go so far in including him in matters of state. Yes, Guinevere had been a servant, and she _was_ a woman, but she was the _queen._ Of course Arthur was going to have her on his council. He couldn't have married a woman if he did not value her opinion. Besides, she would rule in his stead if he were ever absent or indisposed, and she had to know the way that things worked. Plus, he was still very bad at denying her things that she asked of him. Love had proved rather inconvenient in that respect.

"…and you, _sir_, forget that the coloration of the new cobblestones should take precedence over the texture of the old cobblestones. The citizens of Camelot do not walk barefoot on the streets, but they do have _eyes,_ and if they see that their cobblestones are not consistently colored, I fear that we will face unrest in the…"

Otherwise, it was pretty fantastic.

Unfortunately, it was not so fantastic that he could get himself through a council meeting without giving into boredom halfway through. He made most of his decisions without asking for total consensus among his advisors. The counsel that he valued most came from the people who cared about him most and who cared about him enough to tell him the truth as bluntly as was possible for a king to handle.

"…and I apologize for interrupted, but I must ask that you gentlemen calm yourselves, or need I remind of why Uther banned his councilmen from wearing swords during sessions after the events of the controversial clay debate when…"

It didn't help that he could all but feel Merlin's glare in the back of his head. At first, he'd felt so bad about how bad Merlin felt about the whole situation that he'd spent about a third of the meeting trying to think of what type of chair he ought to have someone bring for Merlin during these sessions. Then, he just got annoyed. Merlin technically had no right to be irritated with him. He already got away with far too much. Some of the things that he said to the _king_…if Merlin wanted to sulk about being excluded from the council, he could sulk. And Arthur would be damned if he would go out of his way to get a chair for his manservant. Merlin would stand and be _happy_ about it.

"…so we must agree that _all_ facets of cobblestone integrity be considered before installation, including shading and…"

Although he _did_ somewhat wish that Merlin would just sneak one in on his own. Their interactions had been rather strangely strained as of late, and Arthur wouldn't dignify any request with assent, but he wouldn't exactly have objected if Merlin had one. Those meetings _were_ long.

"…the new cobblestones must be stained so that they match the current cobblestones…."

Arthur shifted in his seat, wishing that he hadn't started thinking about Merlin's lack of chair. He always grew uncomfortable in his own comfort whenever he remembered that his manservant was standing fifteen feet behind him, motionless and holding onto a pewter pitcher of water that no one ever called for.

"…the past scuffings of horseshoes may present a problem with the _surfaces_ of said cobblestones matching those of their counterparts…"

He hoped that Guinevere hadn't noticed. She tended to grow irritated whenever she saw Arthur getting antsy during these meetings. She took them so seriously and was so earnest in her interest that she could never really understand why Arthur was so unenthusiastic. He'd tried to explain that he'd been attending council sessions since he was old enough to sit upright in a chair on his own, but he didn't have it in him to dampen her spirits. She was trying so hard to become a queen, and Arthur knew that it wasn't easy. Blacksmiths' daughters could be wonderful in every single way, but they generally lacked the twenty years of training that most queens would have under their belts by the time of their coronations.

Although he would have dearly loved to ask any of the queens of neighboring kingdoms if _they_ could make a key on their own. In times of crisis, he'd found, the knowledge of how to do a flawless curtsy tended to not be the most crucial of skills.

"…so as long as we all agree that we must first sufficiently damage the new cobblestones to match the old cobblestones and keep the lower town aesthetically pleasing, we can move on to the next topic. It is rumored that the Lady Morgana had been sighted in the forests near our northern borders."

Arthur's head shot up. _Lady Morgana._ He'd heard someone mention Morgana. This was something that he should be paying attention to. Whatever trouble his half-sister was getting up to certainly deserved consideration. More consideration than the logistics of cobblestone replacement, at least.

As he usually did whenever his interest in a subject was piqued, he began to listen. He generally chose not to speak until he heard what his councilmen had to say. As much as the decisions were ultimately his, he liked to be informed. At the very least, hearing how the others spoke of certain subjects helped him to gauge how his decisions would be received by the people. Leaning back in his chair, he settled in and listened.

"The question," began one of the more enthusiastic advisors. "Is whether or not we should strike at Lady Morgana while we have the chance."

Arthur didn't bother to interrupt. Hopefully, they would work out amongst themselves that that was a ridiculous notion. For one thing, none of them even knew for sure that Morgana was out there. For all that they knew, someone had seen a pale woman with a scowl on her face and made all of the wrong assumptions. And what would they propose to do? Dispatching with Morgana was not exactly the sort of mission for which a man assembles an army. Any attempts to assassinate his half-sister would have to be sneakier, he imagined. Less…noisy. Besides, if this woman _was_ Morgana and she _was_ on their borders, they'd have to be very careful as to how they'd mount any offensives. Going on a murder quest on another king's lands tended to be a bad idea.

"I think not," opined one man. "This woman—if indeed she is Lady Morgana—has taken no offensive against us yet this time. It is possible that she has given up on her designs for King Arthur's throne, and if we should _fail_ in our attempts to rid ourselves of her evil…we do not need to provoke her any further."

Arthur almost rolled his eyes. He would have bet his crown that not a single of these men would say the word "kill" in all of their discussions of how best to "rid themselves" of her. The euphemisms of the squeamish were always half-amusing and half-infuriating. Many of _these_ men had never fought in any battle beyond a tourney, choosing education over war. They were sensible enough to see when an enemy needed to be killed but oftentimes lacked the stomach to say it outright. Especially when that enemy was a woman. These were the same men who still insisted on using her proper title when speaking of her.

"I agree," interjected another man. "There is really no reason that we should not suspect that the Lady Morgana has not seen the futility of her plot to destroy the king and Camelot and just given up."

"She _has_ been defeated every time that she has tried to take the throne."

"Eventually," said Guinevere. "As I recall, she successfully took the throne twice_._ It was just taken _back_ from her."

There was a momentary pause, as there always was whenever Guinevere spoke in council meetings. "Twice is enough," said an older man, so gently and so patronizingly that Arthur was furious on his wife's behalf. Guinevere, however, maintained her poise as the man continued. "Lady Morgana will not dare to try a third. She will have seen the uselessness and, hopefully, that she has no real reason to want to destroy King Arthur."

He heard a snort come from behind him. He didn't bother to turn around. Apparently, _Merlin_ didn't agree with their conclusions.

"On a related subject," said a cheerful councilman, the youngest of them all and son of recently deceased member of the council, so recently instated that he was still full of enthusiasm for his post. "There has been a petition to reconsider the ban against magic."

The patronizing old man spoke once more, his tone far more brusque and businesslike than as it had been as he had addressed the queen. "I should think that discussion of Morgana should be enough to reconsider reconsidering the ban. The evils of magic overtook her, and the kingdom suffered for it."

There was another snort. Arthur considered turning around and asking Merlin if he required a handkerchief before he thought better of it.

Chatter began to break out, and Arthur could practically feel the headache coming already. The one negative aspect of the round table was that the men who always seemed to want to argue with one another always sat themselves on opposite sides, so there were always half a dozen arguments flying across the circular surface at once whenever etiquette thusly broke down. He sighed, irritated. He only hoped that none of them would interrupt him. His nerves were fraying as it was.

"We shall not make it easier for sorcerers like Morgana to attack our kingdom," said Arthur, speaking for the first time since he had welcomed the men to his round table. "She may not be easily discouraged, but outlawing magic may at least keep her and others like her at bay. Tell the petitioner—whoever he is, someone must have owed him a favor to get _this_ petition on the docket—that his query was considered but that we feel that the evils of magic outweigh the—outweigh whatever positives he think would come of allowing magic. Remind him of recent _regicides_ if you must. And mention Morgana's name a few times. Keeping a healthy fear of her unjustified vengeance is a good idea for all of us."

"You've got to be kidding me," a voice muttered from behind his chair, and Arthur found that he had had enough. What did Merlin think that he was going to accomplish other than annoying Arthur? Two and a half hours into a council meeting…Merlin ought to have known better than to annoy Arthur, especially considering how short they'd been with each other over the past few weeks. It wouldn't have taken much to get to Arthur that day.

And it didn't.

"Do you have something important to add?" asked Arthur, turning in his seat to look at his manservant. Everyone else ceased speaking immediately, no doubt noting his tone. Guinevere put a warning hand on his forearm. "Have you thought of something that none of us have said? Do you think the members of this council so unintelligent that whatever _you've_ come up with hasn't already been considered and dismissed as ridiculous?"

He saw Merlin set his jaw. Guinevere's fingers clenched around his wrist. Arthur continued recklessly, venting. "The last that _I_ checked, you were not a member of this council," he said nastily. "We have a tactician. We have a historian. We have a strategist. We have learned men. We have the people most familiar with Morgana's character. Why should anything that _you_ have to say make any difference?"

Merlin's eyes were growing dark, and he was fairly certain that Guinevere's fingernails would have been drawing blood if he were not wearing long sleeves. Already beginning to hate himself for the things he was saying—the things that he was saying _aloud_ and _in_ _front_ of these men of his council—Arthur just kept ranting in what he knew was his most condescending voice. Merlin was going to want to _kill_ him...

"Why should you be of any use when I have these men at my disposal?" demanded Arthur heedlessly. "If I need a tankard of water, you'll be the first one I call. Right now, I don't believe that you have anything else to contribute."

The silence rang in the hall, and Arthur thought for a moment that Merlin was going to hit him. He wouldn't have blamed him. Yelled at him, probably, and maybe thrown him in the stocks for the show of it, but Arthur wouldn't have blamed him.

Then, Merlin spoke.

"I wouldn't say that," he said evenly, his voice carefully controlled. He was taking measured breaths, and his face was so still that Arthur had to suspect that Merlin truly had something that he thought that the council ought to understand.

Guinevere clearly saw it as well, and released Arthur's hand. She looked at Merlin warily, tense and interested.

"And why is _that,_ Merlin?" asked Arthur snidely, figuring that he may as well finish the thing properly. "Why should you be of any use in this discussion?"

Merlin broke.

"Because I can see her _point,"_ hissed Merlin.

He hadn't yelled. His voice was hardly any louder than a whisper. But in the council chambers, filled only with the round table and twenty chairs and a gaggle of silently gaping men, the sentence carried through the room as though he'd bellowed. Arthur took a second to appreciate the bizarre acoustics before he saw Merlin turn on his heel and storm toward the doorway, dropping his pitcher with an eerie _clang_ on the way. He was out the door and stomping down the hallway before anyone had a chance to say anything.

For a moment, Arthur was dumbstruck. This wasn't the first time that he had gone off on an ill-advised rant at Merlin whenever he'd had some steam that required blowing off during one of these sessions. Now that he thought about it, it wasn't a particularly kind habit, but Merlin hadn't exactly thrown any temper tantrums before. Arthur had more or less figured that Merlin had taken to tuning him out in such instances. But now, he had retaliated at the king and bolted.

The room was silent. He half expected Guinevere to smack him or pinch him or kick him, but she hadn't moved. Glancing at her, he saw that she looked as thrown as he felt.

Arthur shook his head. He could worry about this later. He couldn't let this be a distraction. It would only encourage Merlin in the future. He only assembled this council on a weekly basis—and even then, monthly if he could get away with it—whereas he spent a hefty percentage of his waking hours in Merlin's presence. He'd have the truth out of Merlin later in a conversation that he figured would end with at least one of them apologizing. He could deal with Merlin later. Now, there were taxes and levies and probably more cobblestones to discuss, and he was the king. He could prioritize.

"Council is dismissed," Arthur said abruptly, already pushing his chair backward. "We'll reconvene at a later date."

He had hoped that he would take them all so by surprise that none of them would manage to question him before he made it out of the door, and he was so very nearly successful that he was already congratulating himself on this preliminary victory when he felt a hand on his elbow, stopping him.

"You're going after him?" asked Guinevere quietly. "Now?"

"Yep," he answered, shrugging into his coat and struggling with the sleeves. There was usually a person standing behind him doing all of the hard work. Jackets were much more complicated to put on un-aided than one might think, he mused.

Guinevere straightened him out. "I hardly think that this is the appropriate time, Arthur," she said, smoothing his collar.

"Guinevere," he said firmly, encouraged that her actions as she helped him prepare to leave were contradicting her obligatory words of discouragement. "By the time that this council session concludes, Merlin will have recovered enough to have come up with some story to excuse what he just did. He's not as sneaky as he thinks, and if I get to him when he's still upset, I might actually get the truth out of him."

"What are these men going to think?" she asked pointedly. "It's going to be obvious that you're abandoning your council meeting to chase after your servant."

"And just let Merlin tear off? Did you see the look on his face?"

"Oh, Arthur," she sighed. "Couldn't you just have gotten him a chair?" When he didn't answer, she just shook her head and continued. "Listen, _I'll_ go after him. You finish up here."

For a second, Arthur was tempted. He saw the wisdom in her words. It wouldn't be particularly kingly of him to go chasing after his surly servant. After all, to these men, it was bad enough that he'd _married_ a servant. Demonstrating that a friendship of any real depth existed between himself and Merlin as widely rumored in front of them wouldn't instill in them a great deal of faith in Arthur. These were noble men, bred and educated and experienced in the matters concerning the running of a kingdom.

"Council is dismissed," Arthur repeated.

Merlin was halfway across the training field by the time that Arthur found him. It had taken him a few minutes to find someone who knew what direction Merlin had taken. It was lucky that Arthur had found a witness; if he'd had to guess where Merlin stormed off to whenever he was in a mood, he would have never considered the _training field._ Although, from the speed of his pace, he looked as though he was just crossing the field and heading inexplicably for the woods.

He also looked agitated.

"Merlin," called Arthur as he approached.

Merlin didn't answer, and Arthur thought that he seemed as though he was beginning to go _faster._ Arthur sped his own pace, annoyed despite his determination to remain calm. He hadn't exactly been very nice when they'd last spoken. But still. If Merlin was actually going to make Arthur _chase _him when he was dressed for a council session, Merlin was going to get himself tackled.

"Merlin!"

Merlin didn't answer. He just walked faster.

"_Merlin!"_

Arthur swore under his breath and sped to a trot, overtaking Merlin quickly. Finally within reach, he grabbed Merlin by the shoulder and spun him around. Merlin shoved him away immediately, and Arthur stood back, hands raised in a gesture of peace. He figured that he ought to give Merlin a bit of space if he wanted to get anything out of him, and Merlin was far angrier than Arthur had expected. Disproportionately angry, he thought. _He_ was the one who ought to be angry, Arthur thought petulantly. But he supposed that he could afford Merlin a little bit of leeway.

A _very_ little bit. Sympathizing with _Morgana_ in front of the old men of the council and then storming out was not among Merlin's best ideas, and Merlin had had a _lot_ of bad ideas over the years. Merlin was not the only man on the training field. Arthur had a feeling that this was going to be a rather…strained…conversation.

"What was that?" he demanded, slightly out of breath.

"What was what?" asked Merlin, his expression guarded. His voice almost sounded curious, and Arthur felt a grim sort of satisfaction. He'd been right. Merlin was going to try to gloss the whole thing over. He was trying to get Arthur to put it out of his mind, like he _always _did…

Arthur didn't know how he'd never noticed. It was only recently, as Merlin seemed to grow mouthier and more frustrated on a daily basis, that Arthur had picked up on it. Whenever he'd done something _particularly_ out of line, he'd be quiet or absent for a bit until he came back, bearing news or food or polished armor or a mood of such utter neutrality that Arthur would just dismiss the earlier tension. As it happened more often, Arthur had begun to put it together. He just needed to catch Merlin at a time like this, when he was too volatile to have planned anything out, to get something genuine out of him.

"'What was what?'" Arthur repeated. "What was that when you just shouted out in my council room—"

"I hardly _shouted—"_

"—when you _shouted_ that Morgana had the right of it whenever she attacked Camelot."

Merlin looked legitimately distressed at Arthur's summing up of his interruption. "That's not what I said, and that's certainly not what I meant."

"Then what _did_ you mean?"

"I _meant_ that I could see why she's so angry and why she's so bent on taking Camelot and getting rid of you."

"So you agree with her."

"For heaven's sake, Arthur!" exclaimed Merlin, almost yelling. "I'm not _agreeing_ with her, but I can see how she got there. She realized that she had magic and found herself surrounded by people who would want her _dead._ Who she thought was her guardian, her surrogate brother, her friends, her guards…"

"I wouldn't have—" Arthur protested, wounded, but Merlin cut him off.

"How would she know that? You'd been hunting sorcerers since you were first given a real sword, and Uther was obsessed…who was she supposed to talk to? There was no one who would help her…" Merlin trailed off before clearing his throat. "So she clung to the one person who would. That person just so happened to be an enemy of Camelot."

"Morgause," Arthur muttered, scowling.

"Morgause. And her attitude makes sense," said Merlin, sounding frustrated. "She has _magic_ and Camelot is a kingdom that considers magic evil. Why would she not despise Camelot as it is now? Why should she not despise the people who perpetuate the laws that make her a criminal? It makes _sense_ for her to hate you. She shouldn't be on your side. She'd be a traitor to her own kind."

Arthur bit his lip. Merlin sounded awfully bitter. "You've put a lot of thought into this."

Merlin ignored him. He seemed to want to get everything out before he lost the nerve to keep speaking on the matter. "So, yeah, Arthur, I can see her point. Her actions have been…you'll never hear me condone the things she's done. But I can understand why she wanted to do them."

"How long have you felt this way?" asked Arthur, feeling strange, as though there was something that he was very close to seeing but couldn't quite make out. Or perhaps that he didn't want to make out.

Merlin snorted. "Since I came to Camelot."

Arthur's heart grew cold as the pieces—eight years of pieces, pieces that he hadn't known were pieces, pieces that he hadn't known were part of any sort of puzzle—began to fall into place. Merlin had been ranting about relating to Morgana's actions, but Morgana hadn't done anything when Merlin had first come to Camelot. He'd been Arthur's manservant for years before Morgana had turned on them. He'd felt this way _before_...

And Merlin was angry…there were no falsehoods in his expression. He wasn't calm enough to lie.

"Why haven't you said anything about this before?" asked Arthur, his voice slightly unsteady.

Merlin rolled his eyes. "Because I get shouted at every time that I exhale too loudly during a council meeting?"

"You've had plenty of chances that weren't during a council meeting," Arthur pointed out, poking holes where he wished he wouldn't.

"I've had my reasons," said Merlin, sounding very calm all of the sudden. Sounding like his old self.

That wouldn't do at all. He had to keep going. They both did.

Arthur furrowed his brow, thinking. When Merlin had first come to Camelot…

"Since you came to Camelot?"

Merlin's expression grew guarded again, as though he knew that he'd said something that he shouldn't have. "Give or take."

"When you declared that you'd be able to beat me in a fight without any trouble?"

"I was bluffing," he said immediately.

"You threw the first punch."

"I _missed."_

"It didn't curb your tongue any."

"I was young."

"You weren't that young."

"I was an idiot."

"I won't argue that."

"Of course not."

His retorts were coming so _quickly._ Had Merlin kept everything so close to his chest for so long that he was able to lie easily that he could tell the truth? If anything, these lighting-fast responses were making it worse.

"How did you save my life?" asked Arthur, keeping up with his questions.

"I helped you not get stabbed in my face."

"No one saw you. No one was _awake_ to see you. Why didn't you fall asleep?"

"The blustery Ealdor breezes. They're good for the constitution."

"How did you not fall asleep and save my life?"

"I was an idiot," Merlin said again.

"What, for saving my life?"

Merlin shrugged. "Who knows what would have happened? Without a son, maybe Uther would have acknowledged Morgana. He wouldn't have had any other heir."

"Don't even say that," Arthur muttered. "Morgana with a _legitimate_ claim to the throne?"

"It was before she'd turned evil. Who knows? Maybe it all would have been better."

"What?" Arthur was lost.

"If I'd just let you die," answered Merlin conversationally. Arthur was furious for a moment, debating whether he ought to punch Merlin in the face or just drag him to the dungeon for an indefinite stay when he caught the wary look in Merlin's eyes and understood. Merlin was trying to provoke him. He was trying to provoke him to _distract_ him.

"Merlin, how are you still alive?"

"Surprisingly."

"All those times that I dragged you into battles without armor or helmet or even a weapon…"

"Wait, you _knew_ that you were dragging me into battle without armor or helmet or weapon? I always assumed that it hadn't occurred to you that I'd probably benefit from a bit of protection. And you always wondered why I hid behind trees!"

"Well, it's occurred to me now. That's not the point. You should have at least been _wounded_."

"I _was_ wounded. Mace to the chest, remember? I almost _died._"

"But you didn't. You should have. You got left behind in a forest of mercenaries alone for nearly two days with a gaping chest wound, then you show up without a scratch on you?"

"I'm a fast healer. Ealdor men are a hearty folk. It's those blustery breezes of ours."

"You knew where my sword was," said Arthur, remembered the day that he'd withdrawn Excalibur from the rock.

"I always know where your sword is," said Merlin. "It's my job."

"You knew where it was when it was still in the stone," Arthur clarified.

"I find things," he answered. "It's a gift."

"You told me about it. About the sword. How would you know?"

"Camelotian legend."

"Do _not_ call us Camelotians. I hate it when you do that. It just sounds stupid."

"That's what it is, though. Legend. All the children—peasant children, which is why you'd never heard it—of Camelot know that story."

"_You're_ not even from Camelot!"

"People tell me things. I'm a good listener."

Now it was Arthur's turn to snort. "You're a good _talker_, and I'm starting to think that you're very good at telling stories."

"Well, you're being very imaginative today," Merlin shot back. "Imaginative and inquisitive."

"Inquisitive?"

"It means that you're asking a lot of questions."

"I _know_ what it…would you stop _doing_ that?"

"What?"

"Trying to make me mad so that I'll let you go."

Merlin half-smiled. "Oh, I have ways of making you mad that would make you forget that I'd ever insulted your vocabulary."

"Then why don't you?"

_Just say it_, Arthur thought to himself, silently beseeching his friend. _J__ust say it, and this can all be over. _

"I'm not desperately self-destructive just yet," Merlin evaded.

"Merlin?" said Arthur.

"What?"

"Do you have something that you want to tell me?" he asked, very quickly before he talked himself out of it.

Merlin laughed, looking suddenly reckless. "Well, _that_ is a good question. Something that I want to tell you? Maybe. Maybe a _lot._ I don't even know anymore. But something that I _ought_ to tell you? Absolutely not."

"Why not?"

Merlin looked at him carefully, gauging. A shudder ran through his body, and Arthur knew that he had it right. Merlin thought that Arthur knew. Maybe he knew that Arthur knew. Now, he would just see if Merlin had it in him to try to deny it.

Merlin exhaled deeply and began to rub his face. "Think about it, Arthur," he began, his voice muffled behind his hands. "Think of how things are in Camelot. Think of the way that you rule. Think of the way that things have been in Camelot since you were _born."_

"Since I was born," Arthur repeated, very quietly, realizing.

Merlin nodded, looking at him once more. His face was very red from how he'd rubbed it, and his eyes were bright. He looked feverish. "And yes, I know that you're older than I am and I wasn't around when you were born. Doesn't mean that I wasn't affected by your birth. A lot of people were affected by your birth. They still are. Think about it, Arthur. Think of the way that things are right now and tell me…if there _was_ this something that I wanted to tell you, why on earth would I?"

"What if I already know?" asked Arthur abruptly.

Merlin didn't answer for a very long time. He just looked at Arthur so strangely that Arthur began to grow uncomfortable until he figured it out. Merlin was _looking_ at him. There were no scales in his eyes. They were plain and open and very sad. His face looked…soft, despite the jutting cheekbones that Guinevere found so adorable. Merlin was _looking_ at him, and there was nothing that separated them anymore. The mask had fallen. Arthur shivered.

"Then I suppose…I suppose that whatever happens next is up to you," said Merlin finally, his voice suddenly exhausted and strangely relieved, as though he'd been fighting and fighting and fighting to break free of something and finally had, only to find himself unsure of what would happen now that he had nothing left to try to fight.

Arthur stared at him, fighting the bizarre urge to laugh. "So, what? It's all in my hands? This is _you,_ Merlin. All your fault. Your life. It's not fair for it to all be on _me_ right now."

"No, it's not fair. Not fun, either," said Merlin, giving a smile that seemed almost nostalgic in its subdued sadness.

"Thanks. Very helpful."

Merlin shrugged. "What goes around, comes around."

He began to walk away, heading at a leisurely pace back toward the castle. Very optimistic of him, Arthur thought wryly. If Arthur decided to go on and execute him as the law dictated, at least he wouldn't have to go very far to track Merlin down. The only real indication that something was wrong with Merlin was how his hands leapt to his mouth and stayed there. Whether he was trying to hide tears or avoid shouting at the top of his lungs or avoid vomiting, at that moment, Arthur could definitely relate.

Then, after a few moments, Merlin spoke.

"Arthur?" he called, and Arthur looked as the sorcerer turned around to look at the king. The sun was setting, and he could barely make out Merlin's features. He wondered if that had been deliberate.

"What?"

"I'm sorry," said Merlin. He didn't bother to elaborate. Arthur didn't care. If Merlin wasn't sorry for the things that Arthur felt that he ought to be sorry for, this was not the time for them to debate the matter. Besides, if Merlin said anything else in way of an apology, Arthur wasn't sure if he would be able to handle it. His hands were already on the verge of covering up his own mouth.

"Me too," he found himself saying.

"Why?" asked Merlin, surprised.

Arthur gave a little laugh.

"I don't know," he said honestly.

He didn't. _He_ hadn't broken any laws. He hadn't betrayed any friends. He hadn't spent the last decade lying to everyone around him. He wasn't a criminal. He hadn't done anything wrong, had he? It didn't make any sense for Arthur to be so genuinely reciprocating apology.

And yet, it felt like the thing to do.

**.**

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**Thank you for reading! This may turn into a series of reveal scenarios in preparation for what will **_**hopefully**_** be happening in Series 5. **

**Please review! Feedback always helps. **


	2. Scenario II

**Disclaimer: **_**Merlin**_** is not mine**.

Arthur was sick.

Merlin wasn't sure how he felt about the whole situation. On one hand, his greatest friend was ill and uncomfortable and of _course_ Merlin felt bad for him. On the other hand, his _master_ was bedridden and distinctly lacking in general chores for him to complete, so in a way, Merlin was having a bit of a holiday.

Not that he'd had many chances to.

He didn't say that to Arthur. Arthur had been confined and locked into his chambers for nearly three days, forbidden all visitors once Gaius had diagnosed him. Merlin couldn't recall what exactly Arthur's problem was, but it was apparently extremely unpleasant and extremely hard to do anything but wait out and extremely contagious. As Arthur was the only one ill and seemed to have brought the infection back with him from a journey that he and Merlin had recently taken through the lands that had once been Cendred's to treat with the new king, Gaius had immediately quarantined Arthur until his illness subsided. He'd also very seriously threatened to quarantine Merlin as well, but when the young man showed no symptoms, the threats had stopped and Merlin had begun to enjoy his free time.

Of course, he still had to deal with an irritable Arthur a few times each day, although for only a few moments. It had fallen to Merlin to make the meal deliveries, which generally consisted of the guards opening the door just widely enough for a plate to be slid through to the waiting king. Merlin supposed that he could have tried a bit harder to be kind to Arthur, but Arthur had been awfully short with Merlin lately and, as his life wasn't truly in any danger, Merlin felt little guilt for his limited dealings with the king.

Then Gaius gave what he clearly thought to be good news to Merlin, and Merlin's guilt disappeared. A rather unpleasant job had befallen him and, as unpleasant jobs seemed to always do, it could not be handled by anyone other than _him._ He had to concede that _this_ wasn't Arthur's fault. But he didn't have to like it and he reserved the right to be as surly and unpleasant as he so chose.

Still, he had found long ago that he much preferred liking things to resenting them, so when Merlin elbowed his way past the guards and entered Arthur's chambers to find the king sitting in his bed with his arms crossed over his chest, Excalibur on his lap, Arthur looking so very much like a pouting child sent to his room and permitted only one toy, Merlin found himself laughing.

But not for long. He couldn't. Arthur just looked so pathetic. From the way that he raised his eyes to Merlin and gave a halfhearted haughty nod of acknowledgment, Merlin had the impression that Arthur did not know what exactly he looked like. His hair was matted to his head with sweat and his skin was so red that Merlin wanted to just douse the entire bed with cool water. But so help him, Arthur would maintain his dignity. He would sit up straight and clutch his sword and probably begin to give orders as soon as his throat opened enough for him to be able to yell. Merlin was almost surprised that he hadn't put on his crown to compensate for the regality lost by his condition. He was glad that Arthur hadn't; he might have started laughing again.

Arthur didn't look like he'd be likely to ever laugh again. Merlin had seen Arthur glare and he had seen Arthur sick, but never had he seen a sick Arthur glaring at him like _this._ There was a steely hardness to his pupils, almost unnoticeable when contrasted with the redness of the rest of his eyes. He was _so_ sick…

So, Merlin did what he did best whenever he strode unbidden into Arthur's chambers to find Arthur grouchy and still abed. It usually annoyed Arthur to no end, but Merlin supposed that perhaps the return to routine might be somewhat comforting. It had probably stung that Arthur's wife wasn't even allowed to see him. So Merlin did as he always had when he'd woken the irritable prince, then king. He was cheerful.

"Hullo, Arthur!" he said brightly. "How are you feeling today?"

Arthur didn't answer. He just looked at Merlin, and Merlin had the feeling that there would have been some incredulity to the glare if it would not have taken Arthur so much energy to conjure up two emotions at once.

Merlin was undaunted. He'd seen worse. "Don't look at me like that, sire, I come bearing gifts. News. Conversation. Humanity. I bring tidings from your council that are more or less verbatim. I'll warn you now that I may paraphrase a bit, depending on the subject. I also bring kisses from your wife, which I will _not_ be giving by proxy. I bring good wishes and arm punches—I'm not making that up, I swear—from the knights that I will _most_ willingly deliver by proxy if you so desire. I bring my cheerful company to—do _not_ throw that at me, Arthur, Gaius says you're not to strain yourself—_my cheerful company_ to help pass the time and, best of all, lots and lots of draughts from your friendly court physician."

Merlin paused for breath, and Arthur seized his opportunity, looking mildly interested from his sickbed, which Merlin took to equal wild enthusiasm on a healthy day.

"Why are you allowed in here?" asked Arthur, looked as though he was both determined to be cranky while also starving for company.

"Luck, in a way," said Merlin, kicking the door all of the way shut behind him. The weighted block that kept it closed fell into place. "You know how you got sick after we rode through Cendred's former lands?"

"Yes, Merlin. I do recall."

"Well," Merlin continued, ignoring Arthur's tone. "As you might recall, I grew up in Cendred's lands."

"Get to the point, Merlin," Arthur grouched.

"Well, you're touchy today. The _point,_ Arthur, is that I had this mystery illness of yours when I was a child and, according to Gaius, I can't get it again."

Arthur shifted in his bed, sitting up a bit straighter. His right hand still clenched tightly around the hilt of Excalibur. "So now I'm stuck with having you in indefinite quarantine with me?"

"Oh, no," said Merlin cheerfully. "I can come and go as I please. _You're_ the only one stuck in quarantine."

He'd expected a reaction from Arthur. An eye-roll. An instruction to shut up. A banishment from the room. A banishment from the castle. A banishment from the _kingdom._ Maybe Arthur was more lonesome than Merlin had guessed. Or maybe it was something else. Arthur was looking at him so strangely…

"What are these draughts that you've brought? Please tell me that they knock me out."

"I don't think so," replied Merlin, dropping several bottles down onto Arthur's desk and holding each up to the light. "This one is for nausea—I know that you havent got that yet, but Gaius says that you probably will. Sorry. _This_ one's for the fever—you should probably take the whole bottle, because let me tell you, you look _terrib—_you look feverish. And this one is for the headache. Gaius wasn't sure if you'd still have a headache, but I thought I'd bring it anyway. Have you got a headache?"

"Yes," said Arthur grimly. Merlin stared at him for a moment. Why did every word that Arthur said today seemed to be imbibed with so much gravity? A headache wasn't _that_ serious. From all of the blows that Arthur had taken to the head over the years, he probably had headaches all the time.

"Good thing I brought it, then," said Merlin, moving on. Arthur could be unpredictable when sick. "Looks like you'll be stuck drinking potions for the next half hour, though. Gaius says that you're not to drink them all in a row. Although, what have you been doing, anyway? Reading?" Merlin cast his eyes around for a book.

"Guinevere confiscated all of my books, back before they shut me in," Arthur said flatly. "She didn't want me to strain my eyes."

"She didn't want you to strain your eyes, so she took away your only source of entertainment and left you alone with your sword?" asked Merlin, almost smiling as he opened the little bottles to breathe. "Always the optimist, our Guinevere. What have you been doing, then?"

"Thinking."

"That explains the headache," Merlin muttered. "Thinking about what?"

Arthur looked at him with those same narrowed eyes. "You."

"That _really_ explains the headache," said Merlin conversationally, although a chill ran down his spine. He couldn't say why, but he felt suddenly…edgy.

"Would you like to know what I was thinking about when I was thinking about you?" asked Arthur casually, and Merlin looked him in the eye.

All at once and in an instant, Merlin found that he very much did not want to know what Arthur had been thinking about him. He wanted to be in the very back of the very back of Arthur's mind. The edginess was building in him, and he felt blood rushing to his face. Flustered and hoping that Arthur hadn't noticed the sudden flush, he picked up a bottle at random. "You know, now that I think about it, I think that this one _will_ knock you out. And maybe I'll go ahead and sneak you a few books so that you can do something other than think for a while."

He glanced at the bottle. It was a draught for skin irritation, he saw, although he didn't particularly care one way or the other. He'd figured that he'd just enchant Arthur to fall asleep as he drank, and who was to say that falling under sleeping enchantments wasn't an itchy experience? He might well have been doing Arthur a kindness.

Arthur didn't so much as look at Merlin's bottle of fake knock-out potion. "Because, Merlin, I think that you would be very interested in what I was thinking about you," Arthur said, his voice very even.

"Strangely, Arthur, I'm not. Maybe I'm coming down with something. I'll just go see Gaius and have him—"

"I have a question, Merlin," Arthur interrupted, and Merlin's heart began to beat faster. Whether with dread or excitement, he could not have said. Arthur continued. "You need to think very carefully before you answer."

It was a combination of dread _and_ excitement, Merlin decided vaguely. Sort of an...anticipatory disquiet. It was making him slightly nauseas. Maybe he ought to drink some of Arthur's potion.

Or maybe he should answer Arthur before he began inexplicably chugging Arthur's medication.

"Okay," he said cautiously.

Arthur smiled, looking very calm. "Is there something that I should know?"

It was only through nearly a decade's worth of lying that Merlin kept himself from reacting to the question.

"Like what?" he asked, hoping that he sounded curious.

"Use your imagination," suggested Arthur. "You'll come up with something."

"Not that I can think of," Merlin answered innocently.

Arthur shook his head, and suddenly his smile didn't look so much like a smile anymore. More of a…grimace.

"This is your one chance, Merlin. Your one chance for the truth. Now, tell me: is there something about you that I should know?"

Merlin shivered and looked Arthur square in the eye, unsure. Was Arthur bluffing? Or was this perhaps something completely different? He wracked his brain. Was there something that he'd done recently that he wouldn't want Arthur to know about that was independent of his magic? He didn't think so. Plus, Merlin realized with a jolt, even if he had gone on a vase-breaking rampage or laundry-ruining spree, Arthur wouldn't know about it. He'd been locked in his chambers, and what little communication that he'd had with the outside world had been soothing words and assurances that he would soon be well. No one would have troubled Arthur with anything.

And Merlin had heard these words before. Arthur never asked Merlin if there was something that he ought to know if he didn't already know it. He was giving Merlin the chance to tell the truth and suffer less for it. Although, if Arthur had gone and figured out what Merlin hoped that he hadn't gone and figured out, he would probably be in for far worse than being assigned some extra polishing.

Maybe he didn't know, Merlin thought. Arthur had had years of coincidences and turns of luck and mysterious goings-on that had all revolved around Merlin; why should he connect the dots now_? _His brain was addled by fever. Maybe, Merlin thought with a sudden burst of inspiration, maybe Arthur wouldn't even remember this once he was well again. He was so sick…surely he wouldn't have figured it out _now._

Although it was probably the first time in the years since they had known one another that Arthur had been both indefinitely infirm and also conscious. He was usually dying of something or other when these things happened. Awake, Arthur had a lot of time on his hands, and if all that he had to do all day was _think…_could he have finally deciphered what lay behind the coincidences and realized the unlikelihood of all of that luck and demystified the goings-on? Arthur was much cleverer than most people gave him credit for, Merlin knew. Just because he was a king who preferred to rule with his heart did not mean that he did not have a head on his shoulders.

Maybe he knew…

Merlin shook his head, aware that Arthur was still waiting for a response. Even if he did know, even _if_…what good would it do for Merlin to confess now? If Arthur _did_ know and Merlin lied about it now, what would it matter? They'd be in for a hell of an argument either way. And if Arthur didn't know and he took Merlin's playing dumb for Merlin just _being_ dumb as he often did…no, no good would come of him being honest about this _now._ There had been so many far more ideal opportunities in the past for him to have confessed, and none of them had involved Arthur in his nightclothes, head aching and body burning with fever. There would be a better time, Merlin told himself, ignoring the little voice in the back of his head that reminded him that he'd told himself the very same thing on countless previous occasions, that he was digging himself in deeper every time that he lied about this and it would all be that much worse when it all finally came out…

This wasn't the right time.

"No, Arthur," said Merlin blandly. "I don't think so."

"Okay," said Arthur, shrugging and so suddenly nonchalant that Merlin didn't believe it. "I just had to make sure. And Merlin?"

"Yes?"

Arthur took a deep breath, as though steeling himself to do something that he very much had not wanted to do. For a moment, he looked dreadfully sad. "Before you bring me my draughts, could you lock the door? I don't want anyone else coming in and getting themselves sick."

Merlin did as Arthur asked, slightly bewildered at the request. And that it had _been_ a request rather than an order. Arthur had plenty of bursts of chivalry, but he knew that everyone had been warned to stay out. Knowledge of how sick Arthur had spread quickly throughout the castle; no one wanted to risk catching and spreading whatever it was. Even Guinevere had admitted that it would be best for the room to remain closed, save for food and medicine deliveries. No one but the immune Merlin would be entering, and he was already inside. He sighed, sliding the heavy bolt into place. What did it matter? If Arthur wanted the door locked, the door would be locked. Even if Merlin hadn't been Arthur's servant and Arthur had not been king, Arthur was looking so miserable that he couldn't have helped but to comply with Arthur's request. It wasn't as though it would do anyone any harm.

Door duly locked, Merlin turned back to gather the bottles of medicine for his friend.

And Arthur attacked.

He was faster than Merlin could have believed. Sick as he was, Merlin had imagined Arthur have difficulty _walking,_ let alone leaping out of his bed with his sword in hand to apparently skewer his servant.

Arthur stabbed _at_ him, and Merlin yelled. Despite his familiarity with the chambers, he found himself stumbling over a stool as he hastily backed up. _This_, he had not expected. Arthur had threatened him with death plenty of times, and Merlin had been hit more than once by a flung object, but unless it was a blunted tourney sword during a training session and Merlin had at least been given a _helmet,_ Arthur had never actually wielded a sword against him.

And certainly not when he was defenseless.

"Arthur, what the _hell_ are you doing?" Merlin shouted, more angry than scared. Arthur had more control over his blade than any other man that Merlin had ever seen, and surely Arthur didn't actually want to cause him any real harm.

Although running away still seemed like a good plan.

Arthur took another wide stab at him, not bothering to rush about. Merlin's clumsy rushing was helping Arthur more than it was hindering.

"Arthur, _stop,"_ Merlin ordered, his voice shaking. He wondered if the fever had truly addled the king's mind. Arthur wouldn't be attacking him. Merlin had done a great deal of stupid things to Arthur over the years, and Arthur had never resorted to anything like _this._

"Defend yourself," said Arthur shortly, slashing at him so surely that Merlin had to duck to avoid bisection.

"_What?"_ Merlin was all but shrieking. He could hear the highness of the pitch of his voice. He would have even been embarrassed if he had not been so busy trying not to get stabbed in the belly by his master and friend.

"Defend yourself," Arthur repeated pointedly, kicking the stool over which Merlin had stumbled in the direction of Merlin's head. Merlin ducked and jumped onto the bed, scurrying over it to the other side, keeping it between himself and Arthur.

"_How?"_ demanded Merlin, breathing hard. None of this made any sense. "What is _wrong _with you? I haven't anything to do any defending. You have a _sword._ A sword that _I_ led you to, no less. Just…stop. I haven't got anything to defend myself."

Arthur gave a self-mocking smile for a moment. "I think that you do." He picked a pillow up off of the bed and hurled it at Merlin. To the surprise of them both, Merlin caught it. Annoyed, Merlin hurled it back at Arthur, who parried the pillow with his sword. A cloud of feathers shot up into the air over their heads, and Merlin found himself wondering how ridiculous this scene would look to anyone who would walk in.

But no one would be walking in, Merlin realized, feeling a stab of ill-timed pride for Arthur. Arthur had made him lock the door beforehand. Arthur had thought this out.

"Defend youself," said Arthur again, striding with so much unlikely speed around the bed. Taken aback once more at the sick king's stamina, Merlin found himself clambering back across the bed, tossing a pillow in Arthur's general direction as he did.

"Stop trying to kill me!" Merlin bellowed, real fear beginning to mingle with the anger, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He wasn't afraid of Arthur's sword. Not really. He _could_ stop him. But that wasn't the point. The point had come to him, very clearly and very suddenly. The point was that Arthur _wanted_ him to stop him. Arthur _knew,_ and in true Arthur fashion, decided that if Merlin wasn't going to admit it, Arthur was just going to chase him around with a sword until he gave himself away.

It _had_ served him well in the past.

And maybe he was a little bit afraid of Arthur's sword. Arthur may have appeared to have completely control of himself, but he was sick_,_ Merlin reminded himself. All of this was happening because he'd been bedridden. Merlin might just be in some real danger.

Which just made him angrier. This was so unnecessary. "Stop it!"

"Make me," said Arthur absently, following as Merlin danced away from him.

"I _can't,"_ Merlin insisted, making his way toward the door and hoping that Arthur wouldn't notice.

"You can," said Arthur firmly.

"How?" Merlin demanded, nearly to the doorway. He just needed to keep talking. "Even if I _had_ a sword, I don't think that it would help very much. I'd be more likely to stab _me_ than you with it."

Arthur laughed thickly, and for a moment, Merlin thought that he saw the grip on his sword slacken a bit. "Don't play dumb, Merlin."

"Why not?" asked Merlin, backing slowly up. He just needed to raise the latch and then twist the block and then the door would open and he could leave and let Arthur calm down on his own. They could deal with all of this later. "I'm good at playing dumb."

"Evidently," said Arthur, more calmly. Then, in a single fluid motion, he hurled Excalibur at Merlin's head.

Merlin, to his eternal shame, responded by closing his eyes and wincing. After a moment, upon realizing that he was not in fact dead, he reopened his eyes and looked for the sword.

He did not have to look far. Arthur had hurled his magnificent sword at the door, the blade lodging itself into the wooden block that needed to be moved to open the door. He had effectively locked them both in. In what Merlin knew to be a futile move, he wrapped his hands around the hilt and yanked.

The sword didn't move, and Merlin decided that he would wonder whether that said more about Arthur's strength or Merlin's when he was in something of a less desperate situation. The sword toss had unnerved him. Arthur was ill, and if his aim had been off just a little bit, Merlin would have an extra hole in his head.

The sword did manage to prove helpful, however, for the sound of it driving deeply into the wood had apparently alerted the guards outside the door that Arthur and Merlin had not just been shouting at each other. He distantly wondered if he should be offended that no one had been particularly concerned at their shouted conversation, but he was too busy being grateful at the sound of a knight's voice that he didn't bother being annoyed.

"What's going on in there?"

Merlin considered his options for a moment, watching with a groan as Arthur procured another sword from somewhere. Did he just have them hidden all over his chambers? Merlin _cleaned_ these chambers! Well, Merlin straightened these chambers. Arthur was apparently skilled in all areas of swordplay, including…hiding them.

But that wasn't the point. He had to answer the knight. He wished that he could tell through the wood which of them was on the other side. Merlin wondered…he could end this all and tell the truth about why Arthur was attacking him, about what Arthur was trying to provoke in him. It could be over and open and, no matter what happened, everyone could _know._

Or he could just tell them that Arthur was attacking him in a fever fit and leave out the whole _why_ portion of the story.

"Arthur's trying to kill me!" Merlin yelled at the door, keeping his eyes on Arthur.

He heard laughter through the thick wood. He would have rolled his eyes if he did not need both of them to figure out which direction he should turn to avoid the king. "I'm _serious!" _

The laughter lessened a bit, although there were still a few guffaws, which Merlin took to mean that at least one of the knights and guards on the other side was a friend. If only Guinevere would come, _she_ would believe him, surely…

Merlin bit his lip. Picking up one of Arthur's discarded boots that neither of them had bothered to put away when he'd last removed them, he threw it as hard as he could into the looking glass. The mirror shattered, the sound of breaking glass echoing throughout the room, and the frame fell backward onto the floor with a crash.

There were no laughs.

"_Arthur,"_ yelled Merlin, annoyed. "Is trying to kill me."

Well, maybe he wasn't trying to actually _kill_ Merlin. But Merlin had the feeling that the threat of immediate death would hasten the knights' breaking open of the door.

"Open the door," one of them yelled helpfully.

Merlin gritted his teeth. "I _thought_ of that. He put a sword through it."

"What?"

Merlin glanced at Arthur, who was just watching Merlin speaking to the men outside. Why wasn't he attacking? Stabbing? Slashing? Or doing the nice thing and _apologizing?_

"He put a sword through the block thing on the door and attached it to the wall somehow and—look, I don't know how he did it. He's very fast at throwing swords. But I can't get the sword out and I can't get the door open and Arthur is going to _kill_ me if you don't—ah!"

"Merlin! _Merlin! _Are you alright?"

Ah. There was Gwen. He began to feel a bit guilty. He'd just added the scream at the end to try to convey the urgency of the matter and get the men to hack down the door before they realized that they were breaking into the king's chambers to rescue a wailing servant. If Gwen was there, or Gwaine or another of the friendly knights, they would have broken him out regardless…but the urgency was real. Arthur trying to stab Merlin was rapidly becoming only one of two serious problems. Not only was he apparently determined to keep attacking at Merlin until one of them collapsed, but he looked like he was already on the verge of collapse.

Merlin had seen this before, in a griffin. The griffin had been able to charge and rampage and wreak destruction for a brief period of time, but then…well, he thought that it would probably be a good idea to get Arthur to settle himself. He had no doubt that Arthur didn't truly intend to do him any lasting damage, but the state of Arthur's body wasn't necessarily on the same page.

There was a sound of pounding at the door, and Merlin saw the sharp end of an axe begin to chip at the wood around his eye level. It was probably time for him to move.

Just as well. Arthur was approaching him again, striding in a measured pace. He spun the sword in the air in the move that he liked to use to intimidate opponents—as if Merlin required intimidating as he faced Arthur Pendragon in a swordfight in which he himself was swordless—and said, "Defend yourself."

Merlin sighed, and it began again.

The axe chopped at the door. Woodchips began to fall to the floor of Arthur's chambers.

Arthur, apparently so determined to catch Merlin in the act that he didn't care that his knights were breaking down his door, advanced on Merlin, swinging his sword in slashes and stabs that would have been far more frightening if Merlin hadn't been able to tell that Arthur was keeping the blows deliberately wide.

Merlin jumped back out of Arthur's reach.

The axe chopped at the door. A hole appeared, and Merlin saw what looked like Gwaine's eye. The owner of the eye gave a shout and the axe went back to work. There was more yelling, Guinevere's rising higher above the others as she beseeched both of her men in the chambers to stop fighting.

Arthur swung his sword again.

Merlin backed away.

It was happening so quickly…

Then, as Merlin was backing away, there was an almighty _crack_ as the door splintered and a few of the knights kicked what was more or less a hole in Arthur's door. Their swords were drawn and their faces conflicted, as though they had just realized what they had done.

Merlin, in what was possibly the dumbest move that he had made in recent months, _looked._ As could be expected, he backed into something on the floor and found himself falling backward. He hid the ground and skidded on his back over the wood chipped floor. He was pushing himself up on his elbows and registering that he'd tripped over that damn stool _again—_why did Arthur even _have_ a stool?—when the king appeared over him, his face suddenly frightened, desperately reckless. Pleading.

_Pleading. _

"Defend yourself," Arthur said one last time, and he began to swing down his sword.

Finally, Merlin snapped. Or did he give in?

For an instant, time slowed, and Merlin raised a hand, inches away from Arthur's sword. Not bothering to choose a spell and risk doing too much damage, Merlin's mind gave a weak pulse.

Arthur flew back immediately and landed hard, skidding backward with so much force that he did not stop until he bumped into the wall behind him. His eyes were as wide as saucers as he looked at his friend, and Merlin realized. Arthur had known, but he hadn't truly believed.

Well, Merlin mused wryly, he sure would now.

The clamor of the knights fighting to shove through the opening in the broken door, all manly shouts and grunts and the clangs of armor clashing together as they strove to be the first one in, was gone.

Guinevere's cries had died away.

There was silence.

"Take your draughts," said Merlin, standing up and brushing himself up as he looked at Arthur. "You'll never get better if you don't take it easy."

Arthur just sat there.

Merlin went to the hole in the door, wanting to be out of that room as soon as possible, away from the people that he loved.

No one stopped him, moving out of his way as he brushed past them. He thought that he could hear the whispers beginning behind him as he strode away.

Aimlessly, Merlin walked. He walked and walked and walked and walked, a single and strangely calm thought running in his head over and over again.

Arthur knew that he had magic. They all knew.

Arthur knew that he had magic. They all knew.

Arthur knew that he had magic. They all knew.

Merlin stopped walking and looked around, wondering where he had wandered. When he placed himself, he laughed aloud. He was in the passage down to where Kilgarrah had been imprisoned. He hadn't recognized it at first; no one bothered to light any torches down here now that there was nothing but an empty cavern to guard. Suddenly tired, he closed his eyes and leant against the cold stone of the corridor.

Arthur knew that he had magic. They all knew.

They all knew.

Merlin opened his eyes and exhaled.

"Well," he said to no one in particular. "At least that's done."

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**Thank you for reading! I wasn't sure about this one, but I thought I'd go for it anyway. **

**Thank you to everyone for the reviews! They are seriously more motivating than just about anything else, so I always appreciate them a ton. **


	3. Scenario III

**Disclaimer: **_**Merlin**_** is not mine. **

It had been quiet in Camelot as of late. No attacks on Camelot, no inner strife, no controversy in the council. What sadnesses there had been had been soft sadnesses, felt within rather than expressed without. Everything had been functioning as it was meant to function. Yes, it had been quiet in Camelot as of late.

It was very disquieting.

Especially because it was exacerbated by Merlin. Merlin was always _there,_ and Arthur had grown so accustomed to the background chatter that he felt unbalanced when it all but disappeared. Not that Arthur had any right to whine. Merlin had a remarkably valid excuse for how he had been withdrawn for the past few weeks and why his service had suffered, and Arthur hadn't had the heart to bully him for it. He understood. Merlin had lost Gaius only a month earlier, the old physician giving into one of the few ailments that none of his salves or potions could remedy: age.

Merlin had taken it terribly hard, and Arthur could hardly blame him. Gaius had been Merlin's only real father figure and, as he lived more than a day's journey from his mother, Merlin had found himself very suddenly alone.

Well, _he_ had found himself very suddenly alone. The rest of his friends heartily disagreed, but it had been difficult to know how to behave around Merlin. Part of the time, he was as genial as ever, but most of the time, he was just…absent. He seemed to grow more distant every day, and Arthur couldn't see why he should have been getting _worse_.

It hadn't helped, Arthur knew, that the new court physician that he'd had to appoint had taken it upon himself to boot Merlin out of his quarters. From what he'd heard, the new man had rather kindly told Merlin that he was welcome to remain in his current chambers for as long as he liked, but there was no way that Merlin could have lived there with another man on the other side. The new physician had truly done nothing wrong, but Arthur had been furious and yelled at him all the same. It was one of the perks of being king, he thought guiltily. He could yell and vent at just about everyone.

Except Merlin, at that point. Unable to find any words, Arthur had just given Merlin a room of his own elsewhere in the castle. It _was_ bigger than what he'd had down in the physician's chambers, but Arthur knew that it was hardly the same. It did have its own fireplace, though. That was probably a nice change.

Although Merlin had to fetch his own firewood. Arthur might have felt bad about that if he wasn't fairly certain that Merlin wasn't _so_ withdrawn that he couldn't bring himself to skim off of Arthur's pile of firewood.

As though he had heard what Arthur had been thinking, there was a _thump_ and crackle as Merlin tossed another log onto the fire. Arthur jumped; he'd almost forgotten that Merlin was there. He was just so _quiet. _Fortunately, Arthur was seated and Merlin didn't see that the king had so reacted.

Arthur looked up from his papers to make sure anyway. To his surprise, Merlin was standing in front of his desk, just looking at him nervously. It was odd; Merlin never really looked nervous in front of Arthur unless he was going to ask for something he was unlikely to get or going to confess something stupid that he'd done or something valuable that he'd broken. Well, Arthur thought, now _was_ probably a good time for Merlin to beg a favor or admit to some wreckage. If he didn't know that he'd be able to play on Arthur's sympathies until he perked up again, he was a fool.

Finally, Merlin spoke.

"Arthur, can I have your sword?" he asked, still looking tense. "I want to get it polished."

That was strange. Merlin _never_ polished his sword. Sharpened it, yes, but for some odd reason, Excalibur never seemed to dull or tarnish. Besides, it was a _sword._ Swords, save for those ceremonial, weren't really meant to be pretty.

Still, it wasn't as though polishing would actually _hurt_ the sword. Arthur blade the sword from its sheath at his hip and leaned forward, handing it hilt-first to Merlin. Merlin took it and looked at how it shone in the light.

"Why do you even wear your sword when you're sitting indoors nowadays?" asked Merlin, sounding like his old self. "That can't be comfortable."

"You never know when you might need to defend yourself," said Arthur defensively. Merlin laughed. It was a reassuring sound

"You just miss going on quests and battling foes. Being king does seem to be a rather less violent job than prince."

"I just like to be ready, Merlin!" Arthur insisted, and Merlin laughed again before his face dropped into a severe seriousness.

"Yeah, I figured," he said. Then, he turned and threw Excalibur unceremoniously on top of Arthur's and Guinevere's bed. Planting himself firmly between where Arthur sat at his desk and the bed, he looked at the king.

"If that's how you polish," said Arthur dryly. "That explains a lot about the state of my armor."

Merlin didn't crack a smile. Arthur was used to that by now. Merlin was mourning. It wasn't as though Arthur wasn't incredibly funny, he knew. Merlin had once informed him that the only reason that people ever laughed at his jokes was because he was their king and they had to, but Arthur had just assumed that that was another instance of Merlin trying and failing to be amusing. As if Arthur's jokes weren't funny!

But that wasn't the point.

"Arthur," said Merlin, crossing his arms over his chest. "I need to talk to you."

Arthur opened his mouth to make another smart remark, but he closed it when he saw the expression on Merlin's face. He looked grim. Arthur gestured for Merlin to carry on.

"Arthur, you have a history of growing angry over very small and very stupid things," Merlin began.

If Merlin was going to be asking for a favor, Arthur thought, this was not the best way for him to open.

"You have a history of lashing out when you're in a bad mood," Merlin continued. Arthur wanted to interrupt, but Merlin seemed to be having a difficult time having this out. He ought to let Merlin finish, he told himself. Besides, Arthur had to concede that Merlin may have had half of a tiny little miniscule bit of a point on that one.

"You have a history of violence," said Merlin, apparently determined to continue listing his least favorites of Arthur's faults. "You have a history of violence, and you are very good with weapons."

At least there was a compliment in there.

"You have a history of giving into prejudices."

Arthur bit his lip. Merlin had better be finishing up his accusations and moving onto the wildly glowing praise soon. Bad as he felt for Merlin, his tolerance only stretched so far.

Merlin took a deep breath and looked very earnestly at Arthur. "But you also have a history of great forgiveness and openness of mind, and I'm going to trust in those."

Arthur leaned back in his chair, balancing on the back legs as the front lifted off of the floor. "What have you done now, spoiled a shirt? Misplaced a boot? Honestly, Merlin, as long as my sword and armor are okay, I'm probably not going to have you killed."

"Don't speak too soon," he muttered, giving a sad sort of chuckle.

Arthur found himself smiling. "What on earth are you on about?"

Merlin rubbed his face with his hands. "Arthur, you're still alive."

"Very observant of you."

"But you shouldn't be, should you? All of the coincidences that have saved you, all the times that you've commented on the luck that has pulled you—_us—_out of a bad situation, all of the unlikely escapes…they add up, don't they?"

"Sure, let's change the subject, why not?"

"I mean it, Arthur," Merlin insisted.

"Yes, they add up," Arthur conceded.

"Haven't you ever wondered why?"

"Where are you going with this?"

"Haven't you?" Merlin sounded so urgent...

"Because there's a secret sorcerer somewhere out there, looking after me?" guessed Arthur, sighing.

Merlin stared at him. "Where on earth did that come from?"

"It's something that Gaius said to me once," said Arthur carefully, unsure how Merlin would handle the mention of Gaius. "He said that there were some magic users who have been looking out for me. He even said that he thought that the sorcerer who killed my father…didn't mean to kill my father."

"Oh," said Merlin, the corners of his mouth twitching a bit. "A bit of luck on my side now."

"What?"

"Nothing. Do you believe that? That there's a secret sorcerer looking out for you?"

Arthur looked at him uncertainly. He'd never spoken with anyone about this. "I don't see why not. It would make sense. Besides, wasn't Gaius technically a sorcerer? He never did me any wrong. Why shouldn't there be another one, another exception, like him out there somewhere?"

Merlin stared at him.

"What?" asked Arthur defensively.

"This is not going how I expected it," said Merlin, looking bewildered.

"You said that I had an open mind," Arthur reminded him, feeling insulted and not quite knowing why. "And it was something that Morgana said. Remember, when we were in the throne room, with Tristan and Isolde?"

"…Yes."

"Morgana said something about an 'Emrys' saving me. I didn't make anything of it at the time, but when I thought about it later, I kind of figured that Emrys had to be a sorcerer."

"Why?"

"Emrys isn't a very common name, is it? It sounded...Druidish. Besides, Morgana wouldn't be afraid of any regular warrior defending me. She only seemed to be afraid of magic. So, yes, I've figured that I've had some sorcerer called Emrys looking in on me from time to time. Hell, I probably owe him a thank you. Even if he is a sorcerer."

Merlin gaped.

"I'm smarter than everyone thinks, you know," said Arthur, exasperated. "I _do_ figure things out on my own from time to time."

"And you just…accepted it?" asked Merlin incredulously. "Why didn't you _say_ anything?"

Arthur shrugged. "I didn't want to trouble Gwen with the idea that a sorcerer might be watching her from afar. And you always seemed so wary of magic, so nervous whenever we spoke of it, so I didn't want to frighten you…"

Merlin began to laugh. "Arthur, we have been so _stupid._ You thought that I was too afraid of magic to tell me that you suspected that you had a sorcerer protecting you who you wanted to _thank_ for his protection, and I was too afraid of upsetting you by telling you that you had a sorcerer protecting you because I thought you'd want to kill him. We really need to work on our communication skills. This is so stupid…"

Arthur was beginning to grow concerned about Merlin. He wasn't making any sense. "What on _earth_ are you talking about?"

Merlin's laughter stopped, but he still smiled. "Oh, Arthur, you're _so_ close to seeing it. You're _right_ there. But you never will, will you? It's too near."

"What do you mean? Do _you_ know who he is?"

"Oh, you are so going to want to kill me for this," Merlin muttered, covering his eyes with his hand.

"Do you?" demanded Arthur, ignoring Merlin's comment. He often felt that he wanted to kill Merlin.

"I'd say so."

"What do you mean, I'm 'close?' Close to knowing?"

"Yep."

Arthur waited, excited and anxious all at once. He was ready for this.

Merlin, on the other hand, didn't seem quite so eager to share.

"_Well?"_

Merlin kept his face covered by his hands. "I am so glad that I took your sword…"

Arthur automatically reached for his scabbard where he normally kept his sword. Feeling the emptiness, he leapt out of his seat so quickly that it fell backward behind him.

"You didn't take my sword away to polish it!" said Arthur accusingly.

Merlin just shook his head.

"You sneaky little son of a…never mind. I can just kill you with my bare hands," Arthur threatened, glaring. He was half annoyed and half proud of Merlin for his pre-emptive protection for what he seemed to think was going to be a violent conversation. As if Arthur would actually kill him!

Well, as if Arthur would actually kill him _before_ he got Emrys' identity out of him.

"Do you still want to know who that sorcerer is that might be protecting you?" asked Merlin.

"Emrys?"

Merlin laughed thickly, the noise muffled through his hands. He couldn't hear the tone very clearly, but Merlin almost sounded…manic. "Yep. Emrys. You want to know who he is?"

"Yes, Merlin," answered Arthur, his patience running thin as he strode around his desk to face Merlin.

Merlin finally looked up. His eyes were bright with unshed tears, and Arthur could not tell if they had welled up because of his laughter or because of some distant sadness or because of the bizarre recklessness than shone out of them. He looked Arthur straight in the eye. Arthur raised his eyebrows, waiting for whatever name Merlin was going to give him, uncertain of what he would do with the information.

He waited all the same.

Merlin just gave half a smile and shrugged.

Arthur stared at him, thinking that he ought to laugh at the ridiculousness or shout at Merlin for the unkindness of the prank or beseech him to stop fooling around and give up the real name. He thought that there were a lot of things that he ought to do.

But then he thought some more.

He remembered.

And then he started to feel.

"No," he said firmly, hearing himself as if from very far away.

Merlin didn't say anything. He just kept _looking_ at Arthur.

"Stop it," said Arthur.

Merlin just shook his head, look terribly sympathetic and terribly uncertain at the same time.

"_Stop _it," Arthur ordered, hearing his own desperation.

"I can't," said Merlin softly, finally speaking.

Arthur wished that Merlin hadn't said anything. He felt himself falling backward and leant against the table, drooping in on himself. Thinking. Remembering. Feeling.

_Morgana_. Hers had been the first, his sister…

_Agravaine_. His had been the deepest, his only living relative…

_Lancelot_. His had been the most heartbreaking, the honorable knight…

_Guinevere_…

And now…

"Merlin?" asked Arthur, his voice very soft and very sad. He looked up at Merlin, eyes wide and wondering and wanting. "You too, Merlin?"

Merlin, who had looked very firm from the moment that he had given the shrug that had given him away, bit his lip. He looked as though he wanted to weep and will away the lies. Yet he did not waver in the slightest.

"Yeah, Arthur," he said. "Me too."

Neither of them spoke for a very long time.

Finally, Arthur looked up, resolute and exhausted. He had to understand before this was over. They _both_ had to understand, and if they broke away and left this until the next day, it wouldn't be the same. _They_ wouldn't be the same. No, they had to have it out now.

"Merlin," said Arthur evenly, breaking the silence.

Merlin broke in before Arthur could even begin. "Arthur, you have to understand, before you do anything that you might someday regret. I lied, yes, and…yes, I wish that I hadn't had to. But I had to _live_, Arthur, and if _you_ were to live, I had to live. I did what I had to do to survive, and I'd do it again in an instant. I don't know what that says about me, but I would. Call it a survival instinct. But I just wish that I hadn't had to. Try to understand…Magic isn't evil, not on its own. It can be a force for _good—"_

And Merlin thought that _he_ didn't understand?

"I don't give a damn about the magic, Merlin!" Arthur bellowed, and Merlin jumped. Arthur had been all but catatonically calm ever since Merlin had confirmed that he too had lied to Arthur so devastatingly. He supposed that the sudden shouting _would_ take a man by surprise.

Good, he thought vindictively. It was only fair that _Merlin_ have a few surprises to deal with that day.

Merlin stood very still. "You don't think that magic is evil?"

"Well, not entirely!" Arthur shouted, hoping that the yelling would make up for the softness of his words.

It didn't seem that it had, and Merlin stared at him.

"That was fast," said Merlin cautiously. "I had a whole other speech planned."

"_Well,"_ said Arthur through gritted teeth, mind buzzing and prioritizing. "You've been in an ideal place to kill me for the past ten years. If you'd wanted to, you would have. No, you're not evil, and you have…you have magic. Ergo, you idiot, magic is not necessarily. You're not evil. And yes, I said 'ergo.' What of it?"

Merlin's had face brightened at Arthur's declaration that he did not believe him evil, and Arthur scowled. "You _are,_ on the other hand, a lying thieving traitorous criminal who's been deceiving me since, I don't know, _forever._"

The silence rang in the room for a few moments.

"I'm not _thieving,"_ said Merlin, sounding so vaguely indignant that Arthur realized that it had been a good move on Merlin's part to have separated him from his sword.

Neither spoke for a few minutes. Arthur hoped that Merlin spent them thinking about how ridiculous it was for _Merlin_ to be indignant about _anything_ in this conversation. He fully intended to let Merlin wallow in what he hoped was considerable guilt for as long as necessary, but his curiosity got the better of him. Besides, Merlin didn't look nearly as apologetic as Arthur would have liked. He hardly looked apologetic at all.

"You've had magic forever?" asked Arthur slowly. "This whole time that you've been working for me, you've been hiding it?"

Merlin nodded, looking surprised and more than a little bit edgy.

"Why are you telling me _now?"_

Merlin bit his lip, looking as though he was not entirely sure whether he wanted to come clean. "Because…look, Arthur, Gaius was the only other person in all of Camelot who knew that I had magic. And no, I'm not trying to get you to calm down by making you feel bad and mentioning Gaius. But he was the only person who knew that half of me. He was the only person that I could talk to about magic, and _now_…look, whatever you decide that you want to do with me, I just wanted someone to _know._ Honestly, I knew that you probably weren't the smartest choice of confidante in this particular case, but how could I tell someone else before I told you? After everything, I owed you the truth _first,_ at least."

Arthur groaned. That was a good reason. It was an _understandable_ reason, and Arthur did not want to be doing anything close to _sympathizing_ with Merlin just then. He sifted through Merlin's words, trying to find something offensive for him to latch onto.

"Before I decide what I _want_ to do with you?" he asked snippily.

Merlin shrugged again. "Well, I know that the law states that you're supposed to have me executed—I really hope that you'll rethink that law, by the way—but I was kind of hoping that you'd make a different decision. Don't think that I haven't noticed that you haven't executed any sorcerers since Uther died."

"I haven't caught any," Arthur pointed out. "Aside from Morgana—and _you —_there haven't been any magical attacks on Camelot, really."

"I never _attacked—_alright, not the point. Has it occurred to you that the magical attacks have stopped because Uther is dead? It's not that you haven't _caught_ any. It's that you haven't hunted any. Not all sorcerers are Morgana, Arthur. Maybe the rest of us—yes, _us,_ deal with it—are willing to give a you chance and gamble that you're not your father. I am. And I would very much appreciate it if you didn't break your streak of not executing sorcerers by trying to do it on me."

"Forget execution," Arthur muttered. "I'd kill you right now if you hadn't taken my damn sword."

"Oh, for heaven's sake," said Merlin, exasperated. He retrieved Excalibur from the bed and threw it at Arthur, who caught it, surprised. "There. Have your sword back. Do what you will."

Arthur squeezed Excalibur's hilt and glared at Merlin.

"Are you trying to kill me?" he yelled angrily.

Merlin was unimpressed by the wrath. "What, like you can't catch a sword by the hilt? I've been watching you train for the past decade. You could have done that blindfolded."

"It's not that I don't trust my sword catching skills," Arthur responded tetchily. "I just happen to have doubts about your sword _throwing_ skills. Is this your sneaky way of trying to kill me and make it look like an accident? No one would have trouble believing that _you_ mishandled a sword."

Merlin rolled his eyes. "If I wanted to kill you, I'd do it from here."

Arthur snorted. "You couldn't."

"I could so."

"Liar."

"I am not!"

Arthur looked at him accusingly. He moved toward Merlin until they were only about fifteen feet apart. Trying to look casually threatening, he leant against a shelf that was approximately the height of his shoulders, and he held his sword at the ready.

"I am not lying about _this,"_ Merlin amended, apparently unintimidated. Perhaps the vase of carefully arranged flowers next to his face was reducing his fearsomeness factor.

The idea did not improve his mood.

"You are," Arthur exclaimed, inhaling deeply. "You _are_ lying. You've lied about _everything. _You think that just because I didn't know that _you_ were a sorcerer—I was _close—_means that I don't know anything about sorcery? You think that I've forgotten every time that a sorcerer has tried to kill me? If they could just kill me from a distance, I would be _dead. _Granted, they all seem strangely determined to tell me the details of their bizarrely elaborate plots before they kill me, but at least _one_ of them would have managed it by now. You're bluffing_._ You are lying, and frankly, I find it utterly offensive that you're _still_ lying to me, even after everything. Is it a habit that you can't break? Because if you can't be truthful even _now,_ that says something about your character that I would have never believed of you. You think that this is going to go very far in making me want to change the laws about sorcery? You may not be evil, but your constant and consistent _lies_ over the last decade are not really a great motivator for change in your favor. And how stupid do you think that I am? If you honestly expect me to believe that you could somehow _kill_ me from fifteen feet away, then I am incredibly insulted. _And—_"

Arthur stopped to take a breath. He was improvising, but he was fairly certain that he could ramble his way through another speech about Merlin's lies and how whatever powers he had, there was no way that he could do just _anything_ that he wanted. Then, just as he opened his mouth to begin another rant, the vase on the shelf next to his head exploded.

Arthur promptly fell over.

"Oops," said Merlin. "Missed."

"_What?"_

"I'm kidding, Arthur!" said Merlin, ambling warily over, and he offered Arthur a hand to pull him to his feet. Arthur batted his hand away. "Is this not funny yet?"

"No, it is _not_ funny!" yelled Arthur, climbing to his feet and staring at Merlin, who now stood directly in front of him. Merlin, who had demonstrated that he could in fact have killed Arthur from fifteen feet away. Easily. Merlin, who had just made sure that his first demonstration of magic was one that would show Arthur that he was not a man who would be easily subdued. Merlin, who was everything that was opposite to what Arthur had always believed of him.

Merlin, who'd been able to blow things up from across a room for the past ten years without doing so to Arthur's head. Merlin, who was a deadly sorcerer with every reason to hate everything associated with the Pendragons. Merlin, who had served him faithfully—if rather substandardly—for most of his adult life. Merlin, who stood across from them, smiling that strangely cryptic smile that he always wore whenever he was giving Arthur some of his rare wisdom—or maybe it wasn't so rare, now that Arthur thought about it—as the petals from the annihilated flowers wafted down around them, sticking in their hair and on their clothes and everything around them, even as Arthur glared.

Suddenly, he could see why Merlin was smiling.

It _was _kind of funny.

"Ten years, huh, Merlin?" asked Arthur.

"Ten years, Arthur."

"I'm not going to be able to kill you, am I?"

"I'd rather that you not try to, honestly."

"But could I?"

"I suppose if you snuck up on me. Killed my in my sleep or something."

"But not in an open battle?"

Merlin snorted. "In an open battle, I'd explode your head like a vase of flowers."

Arthur almost smiled. "If I tried to behead you?"

"You might run into some trouble with the axe."

"If I tried to burn you?"

"You'd find that I am curiously un-flammable."

"If I tried to shoot a crossbow bolt into your heart?"

"You'd discover that my skin is basically armor."

"If I tried to have you drowned?"

"I'm very buoyant."

"If I had you garroted?"

"That's gruesome, Arthur! Might work, though."

"And if I exiled you?" asked Arthur finally.

Merlin smiled sadly. "I would go."

Arthur nodded. He believed him.

"I'd probably take Gwaine with me, though."

Arthur laughed, surprising himself. "He'd go with you, too. Even if you do have magic."

"Are you kidding? He'd be thrilled. Can you think of all of the tavern tricks he'd have me doing?"

"Merlin, you have been my manservant for a decade," said Arthur, abruptly changing the subject back to the distinctly less appealing subject.

"Yes?" asked Merlin warily.

Arthur knew what he was thinking. Was it an argument in his favor that he'd remained by Arthur's side for so long? Did that make it feel all the worse? Was it finally occurring to Arthur that Merlin was truly _not_ a very good servant? Being a sorcerer might just have put him over the edge on _that_ front. There were all valid arguments, Arthur knew, and arguments that he probably ought to consider. This wasn't something that he could just up and _decide. _This would take careful consideration. Suddenly, Arthur was exhausted. Merlin was his _manservant, _he thought grimly...

Which suddenly gave him a very good idea.

"Merlin, clean up the damn vase," said Arthur tiredly. He didn't want to think about any of it. "I need to take a nap."

"Am I not sacked?" asked Merlin, surprised and amused by the order. He supposed that Merlin would have been expecting something a bit more dramatic.

"Maybe tomorrow. Right now, I want the stupid glass cleared up before Guinevere comes in and sees what you did to her vase. Don't think I won't flip on you if she asks."

"That's all? You're going to just…take a nap? I couldn't sleep a wink if I were you. I mean, _I'll_ be fine. I actually feel pretty good about all of this, getting it out in the open. But don't you have an awful lot to think about?"

"I'm the bloody king," he said, collapsing onto his bed without even bothering to remove his boots. "And I'm going to deal with this tomorrow."

Merlin laughed and walked around the room, extinguishing the candles. Arthur closed his eyes. He heard the tinkling of glass as Merlin must have been brushing it up and then a strange _whoosh_, which Arthur assumed was Merlin pulling shut the curtains. Arthur opened his eyes, finding himself in total darkness. It was a wonderful sensation.

Merlin left after only a few more moments, putting something down with a _clunk_ on Arthur's desk as he made his exit. Sleep beginning to take him, Arthur propped himself drowsily up on his elbows and squinted through the gloom, trying to see what Merlin had left. After a few moments, as his eyes adjusted, he saw.

It was the vase, perfect and undamaged. There were no flowers.

Arthur lay back, shivering.

He did not sleep.

**.**

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**Thank you for reading! I actually wish that I could turn one or all of these one-shots into full stories, but with season 5 about to premiere (and hopefully disprove all of these scenarios), I'll probably have to go on a writing hiatus. :)****  
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**Please review! They're very much appreciated. **


	4. Question For Any Readers

Sorry, not an update!

I just have a question for any readers. If there's no reveal early in Series 5 or for any American watchers who actually stick to the official schedule ( :) ), I think that I might keep writing. If I do, it would probably be a continuation of one of these reveal one-shots. I can't decide which I'd do, so I'd love some feedback on whether it would be or if it is a bad idea to keep going in the event of a lack of actual reveal or which of the stories. I might be out of reveal stories that no one's ever done a ton of times before, and lacking originality would probably just be dull. :)

If these sound like bad ideas, thank you for reading anyway!

-MoonMargaret


	5. Scenario IV - Something Different

**Disclaimer: **_**Merlin**_** is not mine.**

All in all, she was in a good mood. She'd had a fairly successful week. Everything had been going almost exactly according to plan, and that _never_ happened to her. At least, not for very long. But it was all working out and, try as she might, she couldn't really see any flaws in how her plot was meant to continue unfolding. She had _everything_: strength, numbers, might, magic, walls, her, and _him._

Of course, she'd had to punish her men when they brought him back. She'd been pleased that he'd been captured, of course, but when she heard that they had just _left_ the others where they'd fallen, she'd known that they'd have to be punished. Just because they had fallen did not mean that they were _dead_, and while they would have posed no threat to her, they were an inconvenience that she did not need. Camelot soldiers were just so _irritating._ Half of them died from a conk on the head while the other half seemed capable of surviving being run through by a tree trunk. Besides, how much time and effort would it have taken? The men were already unconscious. Her men had swords. All that they had to do was stroll around and stab everything that moved. Easy. Her men had tried to explain that there were still over a hundred knights in red cloaks and that they had to escape with their prize before any had woken, but _honestly_. There were twenty of them. They could have managed any befuddled knight who opened his eyes. Her men hadn't even taken the _horses._ It was embarrassing.

Still, they had captured him. That was worth something. Besides, what few men she'd lost in the battle were negligible at best. She still had an army of thousands at her beck and call. If she said the word, she'd have them in the courtyard, ready to attack within twenty minutes. Between her army and her sentries in every direction, any stragglers from Camelot posed no real threat. Besides, she had her inside man in the camp. They _would_ come, she knew, but she had hoped that their penchant for speedy heroics would outweigh common sense and they'd march on her citadel without bothering to send for reinforcements. And she knew that they wouldn't want to raise alarm on the homefront by giving any indication that their king had been taken.

It still would have been more satisfying if Arthur was showing an appropriate level of fear at the whole thing. He seemed convinced that he wasn't going to die. She needed him to understand—just because she hadn't killed him _yet_ didn't mean that she wasn't going to kill him at all. She just wanted to break him first, she thought. She wanted him to feel how it felt to watch everything that he cared about as it died in front of him. Dying needlessly in his name. Had he grown so arrogant that he no longer cared about his men? He had to know that they would come for him, and one of Arthur's few constants in character had always been his care for his men.

Maybe _he'd_ finally been conked on the head one too many times. Whatever she said to him, whatever she showed to him, whatever she _did_ to him, he never seemed to quail. When he'd first woken up in her dungeons, there _had_ been a few hours of panic and despair from all that he didn't know of what had happened, but he'd calmed enough when she'd told him that she wasn't planning on killing him yet. She wanted him to watch as she massacred his men with her army. _Then_ she would kill him.

Of course, in the process, she'd let it slip that many of Arthur's men had survived and, when he had asked who _had_ been killed and she'd been unable to give any names of consequence, he'd settled. She supposed that he figured that his favorites of the knights would certainly come for him and would actually _succeed._ He was being almost _smug_ about the whole situation. It was very irritating. Even her impressive displays of magic were failing to incite much terror in him anymore. He seemed…underwhelmed. It didn't make any sense. It was as though he knew something that she didn't, but that was impossible. _She_ held all of the cards this time. He was probably just putting on an act to annoy her as much as possible before the end began. Even when she'd stopped allowing him water, he hadn't become properly dispirited.

Yet she remained in a good mood. The enemies were marching on her, and it was _good._

She had a feeling that it would be soon, so she'd spent whatever time she had not allotted for brooding preparing for the encounter. Just because she was assured a triumph did not mean that she should not put up a commendable performance. Everything would be ready. There had been a few moments of uncertainty when sky had been stormy earlier in the day. She hadn't been worried about her men; she'd trained them that they were not to break ranks no matter what they faced in battle. They might die in the fight, she always reminded them, but they would certainly die if they ran. She would see to that.

So they never broke rank.

Still, as much as the rain would have crippled the reflexes of the men of Camelot, it wouldn't do her men any favors either. When the sky had cleared up into a vibrant blue as the afternoon passed, she'd been glad. The sun shone brightly, and it was just as it was beginning to sink in the sky that she heard the pounding of hooves in the distance. A rather pleasant tingling sensation had run over her body. The knights were coming.

She directed her men to remain in the shadows of the citadel walls and ordered the torches that lined the courtyard extinguished. The knights would be riding directly into the brightness of the sunset, and Morgana's men would be able to take advantage of their sun-blindness. Her victory would be secured quickly. She stood out on her balcony, the view overlooking the courtyard upon which the vanguards would meet. The silence and the extinguished torches that lined the wide road gave the impression that all was dead without and her soldiers were mere wraiths supported by scrappy armor. But they were real. The knights would learn that soon enough, and she would have a perfect view as they did.

There were sounds of scraping and scuffling down the corridor, and she turned around to see two of her guards dragging Arthur toward her chambers. She rolled her eyes. She'd permitted him food and begun giving him water again once she'd determined that the dehydration wasn't going to break him—she was going to need him conscious. So, bruises and blood aside, Arthur was perfectly healthy. He was just being difficult.

The guards threw Arthur down at her feet, stepping back to stand behind him. He looked strangely small without his chainmail and armor. Even when they had lived as surrogate siblings in Camelot, Arthur had usually had his mail or at least a coat on. Now, in nothing but a thin red tunic, he seemed so much _less_ than he always had. With his hair matted to his head and scruff on his cheeks, he didn't look so much a king as he did a beggar.

Unfortunately, he still had the attitude of the a king.

"My lady," he said, giving an exaggerated sweeping bow even as he was on his knees, forcing down by her men. "As lovely as ever."

She slapped him in the face.

He laughed and struggled pointedly in the grip of the guards. She gestured for them to yank him up. On his feet once more, he brushed himself off and gave her a nod.

"Morgana," he said curtly. She wanted to slap him again.

She took a deep breath, containing herself. She gestured out at the panorama below her balcony. The rumblings of galloping horses were growing louder. "Do you know what that sound is, Arthur?"

"Better than you do, no doubt," said Arthur. "Sing as soldierly a song as you'd like, Morgana. You're not the warrior in the family. Yes, I know what that sound is."

"Your knights approach," she said, ignoring his slights on her fighting skills. He _did_ have a point, in a way. She was no soldier. She was a _sorceress._

"So I gather," her brother said, glancing down at her thousands of men assembled below them in the shadows of the citadel. She was pleased to see that he was looking anxious for the first time since the day that he had arrived. "Morgana, this isn't necessary."

She nearly smiled. "This is not _my_ choice, Arthur. Your men are marching on _me._ Their deaths are on their own heads."

"That's not what I meant," he said quietly. "This isn't going to end well for one of us, Morgana. Why must we start it at all?"

"And what would you have me do?"

"Preferably," began Arthur, running a hand through his scraggly hair. "I'd have you release me to my men and then disappear forever, but I sense that my odds of getting that particular wish aren't great."

"Well sensed."

"Why is revenge so important to you, Morgana?" he asked. "Why can't you just let anything _go?"_

She looked deeply into his eyes, suddenly intense. "If you had gone through what I have gone through, Arthur Pendragon, you would not be so dismissive of my sufferings."

He looked away from her soldiers. "I am _not_ dismissing your sufferings. I'm dismissing your need for revenge. This cycle of bloodshed continues because of _you,_ Morgana, not me."

"My kind are still not welcome in Camelot," she pointed out quietly.

"Then stay the bloody hell out of Camelot!" he exploded suddenly, sounding exasperated behind all of his anger. "Why do none of you just stay away? There are _five_ kingdoms. Why come to Camelot? Stay where you're welcome! Why would you _want_ to come somewhere where you're not wanted?"

"We want to be welcomed," she deflected.

"Well, _you_ certainly never will be. But how can you think that _this _is the way to win yourself a welcome? Death and destruction? Have you not thought of that? Has it not occurred to you that _one_ example of positive sorcery might go miles in making me reconsider? It would certainly be more effective than trying to kill every person from Camelot that you come across."

She didn't answer for a few moments. He wasn't making any sense. She didn't know what she should say to him. She'd _tried _everything else, hadn't she?

Fortunately, she was spared the necessity of finding a suitable response as dozens of red-caped knights clattered into the courtyard, emerging suddenly from the treeline. The hooves of the horses skittered on the cobblestones as they came to a stop. She tried to take a count but lost the number as more and more emerged. There were at least a hundred. Perhaps even fifty more. It didn't matter, really. But even she had to admit that it was an impressive sight. A hundred and fifty mounted soldiers, red capes fluttering behind them, swords drawn and shields lifted. A shiver ran down her spine, and she almost smiled. Enemies they may have been, but the knights of Camelot riding in formation could hardly fail to take a person's breath away.

They formed a sort of block of men, extending out from the trees to about a quarter of the way into the long courtyard. She wondered if they could tell from their vantage point just how outnumbered they truly were. With the sun in their eyes and her soldiers in the shadows, they must have been difficult to gauge.

Neither side moved, and she rolled her eyes. The rules of engagement, she thought. The knights had come to retake their king, and her band of traitorous men were there to defend the sorceress. Yet none would strike without proper parlay. As though anything was to be gained by conversation.

Although Morgana now found that she could speak once more.

"The only people of Camelot who I seek to kill this night, Arthur," she said, looking out at the two armies. "Are the men that are riding on my citadel. This night, I defend myself."

"You kidnapped their king," retorted Arthur, a touch of desperation in his voice. She glanced at him, and she saw that his eyes were scanning the ranks of his own men. No doubt he was looking for someone. She doubted whether he would be successful. They may have been _his_ men, but they all looked the same. The damn red capes made everything indistinguishable. She couldn't even see most of the horses that were in the middle of the block. It was all a sea of red.

"_They_ lost their king," she answered, watching him.

"Give this up," he ordered, almost absently. He didn't look away from his men.

"Give up a certain victory?"

"My warriors are the best warriors in the five kingdoms," said Arthur, finally looking at her. Was that a ghost of a smile on his face? Did he think that he was going to _charm_ his way out of this? An expression of confidence did seem to be settling onto his face. How stupid _was_ he? His warriors may have been excellent, but they were still too few. Did he find three thousand hidden soldiers in his desperate scanning of the soldiers? He must have found _something_.

"That may be," Morgana generously conceded. "But the last time that I checked, I still have you outnumbered five to one."

"Oh, I wouldn't call them an army," said Arthur, some sort of emotion struggling to be hidden by casualness in his voice. He almost sounded excited.

Morgana was nonplussed, although she heartily agreed with his statement. "Nor would I. I wouldn't call them much of anything."

"I'm sure that you wouldn't," he responded.

"Oh? And what would _you_ call your band of misfits, if not an army?"

Arthur crossed his arms over his chest. "If I had to guess, my knights are acting more as…bodyguards than anything else. Unless I am very much mistaken."

Morgana laughed aloud. The arrogance! "Rather optimistic of them, wouldn't you say? A bodyguard marching when they haven't even got the body for them to guard? Do they not know that they have to get their hands on their king before they try to protect him?"

Arthur smiled at her. "I didn't say that they were guarding _me."_

She shivered again. Something about that smile was disquieting. No doubt he was just giddy at the foolishness at this last stand of the knights of Camelot, but still. She felt as though he was saying something very important while at the same time leaving something rather crucial out.

"Who else would they have to guard, Arthur?"

Arthur was looking at his men again, scanning them. "Well, I don't know that he would actually require any guarding. He's rather capable on his own, you know."

"_Who?"_ asked Morgana, following his gaze to the knights, frustrated. She was going to kill him, but she wanted to know what the hell he was on about before she decided on how she was going to execute him.

Arthur didn't face her. "But, you know, accidents _do _happen," continued Arthur, as though Morgana hadn't spoken. "And he always has been rather accident-prone, so I suppose that they'd rather not take any chances. They'd've known the numbers, and it _is_ a rather risky ride. You can't be too careful when rescuing a king, you know."

Morgana was just figuring out whether she ought to continue just questioning him or add some persuasive maneuvers to the questions when two men emerged from the lines of Camelot men. The parlay begins, she thought, annoyed. It wasn't as though any of her men would speak. Any words would come from _her._

Squinting down at the men, she recognized Sir Leon. She wasn't surprised. It made sense that he would take control of the forces with Arthur captured. Seniority aside, he was just about the only properly trained knight that Arthur had anymore, now that he'd taken to knighting just about any man who did him a favor. Sir Leon was the appropriate man to lead now.

She couldn't tell who the other man was. She hadn't even noticed him at first; he must have been concealed amongst the red cloaks, although that must have been tricky. He was not dressed as the others. This man wore no armor or even seemed to carry a sword, and his features were obscured by a long cloak, the hood pulled low over his face. The cloak was green and roughly hewn, from what she could see; it made the man look curiously like a Druid, but no Druid would ever ride for Arthur.

The two men rode to the center of the courtyard, but rather than face her army and wait for a messenger to come forward to speak for the opponent, they turned and looked up at the balcony to Morgana. She wasn't sure whether she ought to be nervous that they showed the good sense to realize that it was she that they ought to be dealing with or flattering that this most exemplary of knights found her to be the one most deserving of respect among his enemies. Leon's army glinted in the dying sunlight, but the other man's face remained hidden. Perhaps he was a Druid hostage that they hoped to barter for Arthur? Surely they couldn't be _that_ stupid.

"Lady Morgana," called Sir Leon, and she almost smiled at the formality. How did he _still_ sound courteous? She was minutes away from having him slaughtered like an animal, but heaven forbid if he lost his manners. "We have come to recover our king. We have reason to believe that he is being kept in your castle."

She rolled her eyes. "There's no need to stand on ceremony with me, Sir Leon," she called back. "You can see your king standing here at my side."

He nodded. "I do. If you would be so kind as to allow him to return to his men, we would be willing to leave your lands without bloodshed."

She laughed, the sound echoing down into the silent courtyard. "Do you think that likely, Sir Leon?"

His mask of courtesy fell, and she saw the fierce determination and utter loyalty on his face. For a moment, it made her feel very lonely. "I think that this is your only chance, Morgana."

"Take a count," she sing-songed sweetly. "I have you outnumbered by _thousands._ And if that is a prisoner at your side that you mean to barter, you may as well kill him yourself. There is no life that I would trade for Arthur's."

Leon and the man in the green cloak looked at each other, and Leon's face gave a twitch before he turned back to Morgana. "I am sorry to hear that, my lady. But I must ask you: stand down and return the king. Let us all leave unharmed, and we shall do the same for you."

"No," she said firmly.

"Do you care nothing for your men?" he asked, sounding indignant on his enemy's behalf.

"I am not Arthur," she said, looking dispassionately at her army. "I lack that weakness."

"Is this your final word, Morgana?" asked Sir Leon.

"Yes," she answered.

"Very well," he said.

Morgana had expected that he would retreat to his own line to rally the knights into their first charge. She considered ordering her men to take a preemptive attack as the knights organized themselves, but what would be the fun in that? She wanted Arthur to see why fighting with chivalry was the same as fighting with futility. She wanted him to see his cavalry break upon her numbers. Besides, she had plenty of men. She could stand to lose some in the first charge. And her lines would not break. Her lines would never break. Yes, she would allow Leon to return to the knights.

But Leon did not immediately turn back to his fellow soldiers. Instead, the man in the green cloak swung himself down out of his saddle, stumbling a bit as his feet hit the ground. Steadying himself, he handed the reigns up to Sir Leon. It looked as though he was speaking, for Leon looked the man in the face and stared intently for several moments. Then, Sir Leon rode back to the lines, guiding his own horse one handed as he led the other.

The man in the green cloak watched as Sir Leon rode away. Once he reached the other knights, the man turned back to the balcony where Morgana and Arthur stood with the two guards. Bewildered, she glanced at Arthur. Bizarrely, he was grinning, looking mightily amused by something. Was he entertained that Sir Leon was leaving his Druid prisoner behind, despite his failing to function as a proper hostage? _What_ on earth could be making him smile like that?

The man lifted his head up to Morgana and Arthur, and her breath caught in her throat. She still could not see his face, but he was about to speak. She knew it. She didn't know how, but she _knew._ He was going to speak and somehow, she knew that the words of _this_ man were words to be marked.

"Alright, Arthur?" the man in the green cloak called up, and she closed her eyes. Her fingers clenched around the balcony railing. She knew that voice.

"I'll live," Arthur yelled back.

"Sorry that I lost you," the man in the green cloak said cheerfully, as though he was not standing alone between two armies and before a vengeful sorceress. "I got myself knocked out. You know what _that's _like. And we'd've been here sooner, but there was something of a problem inside the camp that needed sorting out first."

Morgana groaned and opened her eyes. She could practically feel the headache starting already. This was not happening. Not again. Not _him._ Again. How was this even _possible?_

"You?" she shrieked, exasperated. "How are you _not dead yet?"_

"I'm like a bad penny," the man answered. "I always turn up. Ready to return the king yet?"

"I'm going to kill you," she said, not caring how childish she sounded. "I'm going to kill you myself and then stab you in the heart and then chop off your head and burn what's left and you will be _dead._"

"I wouldn't bet on it," warned Arthur.

"How is he not dead?" she hissed at him. He was smiling. "No armor, no weapon, stupid, clumsy, _remarkably_ irritating…how has no one killed him yet?"

Arthur just shrugged.

"And where the _hell_ did he get that cloak?"

Arthur stared at her. "That's your big question? My knights ride on you and threaten you and deliver _this_ man in front of you, and your big question is about his wardrobe?"

Morgana whirled away from her half-brother. "Where did you get the cloak, Merlin?" she yelled.

His face was still hidden, but she heard him laugh. It was not a kind laugh.

"Suits me, doesn't it?"

Her heart skipped a beat. Something was very wrong. "Where did you get it?"

"Spoils of war," he called back.

"What the hell does _that_ mean?" she demanded, hoping that the volume would conceal the shaking in her voice.

Merlin lowered the hood. "Mordred says hello, by the way."

Her heart skipped several beats. "_Mordred?"_

"Mordred," Merlin confirmed, looking her directly in the eye. "Remember Mordred? Dark hair, blue eyes, infiltrated the Camelot army? Memorable fellow. Although, now that I think about it, maybe it wasn't that he said 'hello.' Want to know what he really said?"

"No!" she shouted. She didn't want to hear it.

Merlin shrugged and turned away, toward her men.

"I think that it was 'goodbye,'" said Arthur helpfully. She made a gesture behind her, and there was an "oof" as Arthur was punched in the stomach. She didn't bother looking. She watched as Merlin faced her horde.

"Soldiers of Morgana," he shouted. "This is your chance. Whatever she has promised you, whatever you believe that you are owed, she will _never_ deliver. This witch is _treachery_, and if you think that you are to be the exceptions to her rule, you will find yourselves mistaken. And by that point, it will be too late. This is your chance. _Run."_

Her men did not break ranks, and she felt a stab of pride.

"Fine," Merlin continued, his voice growing steely. "Perhaps you do not fight for riches. Perhaps you fight because of fear, fear of her power. You are right to fear her. Untempered, she will kill any who oppose her. You are right to fear her power. But do not make the mistake of believing _hers_ to be the only powers that you need fear. _Run."_

Her men did not break ranks.

"Perhaps," said Merlin, beginning to smile that same unkind smile. "Perhaps you think that I am referring to the knights of Camelot who stand at my back. You would be right to fear them as well. They are mighty warriors, a formidable force, and they have lost their king. They would fight to the last man, and many of you would perish with them. You would be right to fear them. But I do not refer to the knights of Camelot. _Run."_

Her men did not break ranks.

One of her men, however, _spoke_, and she tried to tell which of them it was. He would have to be punished later.

"If we should not fight for riches or fear Lady Morgana's powers or fear the swords of the knights, why should we run? What do you propose that we do fear?" he asked jeeringly, and she thought that maybe he wouldn't have to be punished so severely. Speaking was against Morgana's orders, but if he was going to taunt the idiot manservant, she supposed that she could make an exception. "_What_ do you propose that we fear?"

Merlin just smiled. "Me."

He extended his arms to his sides and said a word, so quietly that Morgana couldn't understand. Then, all at once, every single torch in the courtyard ignited so brightly that she was temporarily blinded. Blinking furiously, she saw that they had been lit so forcefully that embers had exploded from the wood and were beginning to smolder on the bushes behind them. Her courtyard would burn, she realized.

Her men did not break ranks.

And finally, _finally,_ Morgana understood.

"_Merlin?"_ she whispered, desperately incredulous.

"You probably know him better as Emrys," said Arthur conversationally. "You're not the only one with secrets, Morgana."

"What are you saying?" she whispered, grasping the stone rail beneath her fingers with all of her strength, leaning upon it with all of her weight. "What do you mean?"

Arthur put a hand on her shoulder. "I think that you know what I'm saying. Don't feel too bad; I had a bit of a surprise about it myself," he said quietly. "But what do you say, Morgana? Ready to give me up now?"

"Never," she shrieked, and Arthur flinched at the sound. She took several deep inhalations. She couldn't seem to catch her breath. Why on earth couldn't she catch her breath?

"Give this up, Morgana," said Arthur.

"I can't," she said, feeling more helpless than she had ever felt before. The armies below might as well have disappeared. All that she saw was her half brother, his face strangely illuminated by the flickering flames conjured by the idiot manservant who was truly...someone else entirely.

"You can," said Arthur, looking down at her and moving closer.

"He is my doom, Arthur," she said.

"So _stop_ this," he insisted

"I can't," she said, almost pleading and hating herself for it. Arthur didn't understand.

"Why not?" he asked, frustrated.

"Because he is my destiny," she whispered.

"Damn all of you sorcerers and your _destinies!"_ he shouted suddenly, grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her. They could have almost been children again. "Damn you _all!_ This is a _choice,_ Morgana. You can stop this. Just say the word. Forget your _destiny_ and your _doom_ and just _change_ it!"

"I can't," she muttered, unhurt, as he stopped shaking her.

"Just say the word," he said, maintaining his grip on her shoulders, his eyes very bright. His fingers dug into her skin, but she knew somehow that he wasn't trying to harm her. He just didn't _understand..._

"I _can't."_

"At least have the courtesy to tell me the truth," said Arthur, looking angry. "You _can_ stop this. You just won't."

"Merlin," she mumbled, looking away, and Arthur gave her another little shake. "Merlin is _Emrys._ How could it have been Merlin? All this time…"

"I know the feeling," he muttered, and she heard bitterness in his voice. He released his grip on her shoulders.

It was enough to bring her back.

"Men," she called out, her voice carrying over the courtyard to her army. She had to squint at them to get a proper look. The torches were blazing so brightly. The bushes were going to catch soon. She knew it. Everything was so _bright…_"Men, to arms!"

As one, the various weapons of her footmen were brandished. In the firelight, she saw uncertainty on many of the faces. Merlin had frightened them. But her lines held. Her men would never break. She raised her arm, about to give the signal for them to charge.

Merlin faced them.

"A bit of brotherly advice, Morgana?" said Arthur, drawing up beside her and leaning on the railing at her right. His voice was grim. All signs of amusement were gone.

"What?" she spat. Her arm was still raised.

"It's just something about your men," Arthur answered mildly.

"_What?"_

"They should probably start running right now."

Morgana shook her hair away from her face and swung her arm down in the air. Her men began to bellow, all as one, and they ran.

Arthur hung his head.

And Morgana watched as Merlin shook the Druid cloak to the ground. Looking very calm, he held up his hands toward Morgana's army, palms flat in their direction. His eyes glowed once.

The torches went out, and everything was plunged into darkness.

Arthur covered her hand with his own.

A pair of eyes flashed in the courtyard.

"Oh no," she whispered.

And it began.

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**Thank you for reading and the reviews! This was a different sort of story, but I thought that I'd give it a shot anyway. Hopefully the departure isn't too bad. **

**Thank you! :)**


	6. Scenario V

**Disclaimer: **_**Merlin**_** is not mine. **

The warning bell rang.

The warning bell rang, and Guinevere's first thought was that the warning bell wasn't nearly as alarming as they had been the first few occasions that she'd heard them. It seemed to ring so _often_ and usually for something that did not concern the majority of the castle, always because someone had escaped the dungeons again or someone had misplaced something valuable and called it theft or someone did something unlikely and it was called sorcery. Granted, there was the occasional usurping here and there, but most of the time, the warning bell rang and served no real purpose other than to wake everyone within a ten mile radius of Camelot. It _did_ seem to usually ring at night. Besides, she was the queen now. One of the first lessons that she'd learned after she had taken the weight of the crown was the importance of keeping her composure. If she panicked, the people would panic. There was probably nothing to panic about anyway, she reminded herself, smiling at the thought. She would just lock her door so that Arthur wouldn't sulk at her when it was all over and get herself ready for bed. It was nothing. She would just let the warning bell ring and when it was all over, she and Arthur would have a talk about his men's eagerness to ring the damn thing.

Then, she heard the screams.

She didn't know what to do. She'd just been sitting in their chambers, still fully dressed and coifed and elegantly shod despite the lateness of the hour. The moon was already high in the sky and she had no idea where Arthur was. That wasn't unusual; Arthur was the king. He couldn't be expected to keep to a consistent curfew. She was used to not knowing where Arthur was. Still, if she could keep her eyes open, she tended to keep herself awake until he came to their rooms. She always slept better if he was by her side.

Tonight had been worse than usual. By this point, Arthur probably would have sent Merlin to her to give some excuse or euphemized explanation of why the king was absent. Starting to worry, she'd opened her door and found the guards that always stood outside when the king was absent to ask why no message had been sent to her. Normally, she'd've been embarrassed to ask where her husband's manservant was, but these guards were used to Merlin's nervous nighttime visits. Still, their answer was disquieting. They'd told her that Arthur was sitting alone at the round table, having sent all of his knights and attendants away. While slightly unnerving, Guinevere wasn't particularly bothered. Arthur tended to go into fits of brooding from time to time. But when they told her that Merlin had been "confined to chambers," she'd begun to feel an irrational fear. Both Arthur venting his spleen at Merlin and sending his guards and counselors away were understandable, but they rarely happened at the same time. And now the bell…

And the screams…

What was she supposed to _do?_

She bit her lip. Every one of her instincts was telling her that she should hasten her way to the king or at least to the source of the screams, to do what she could to help. She could direct knights or speak with the people or nurse. Position aside, she was as capable with a bandage as she ever was. But those were the instincts of her old life. Now she was the _queen,_ and as annoying as she found them, she knew that Arthur's warnings about her safety had some warrant. She would just lock and barricade the door until she could figure out what was going on so that she could do what she could to help. She wouldn't be able to help anyone if she began running about the palace like a chicken with her head cut off. She would be too valuable a captive.

So, trying not to hate herself for protecting herself when there was screaming outside of her windows and commotion in the hallways and the guards from outside of her door missing from their posts, she locked the door and mustered all of her strength to shove Arthur's desk in front of it.

Exhausted by the effort, she sat back on the bed and tried to remember where Arthur kept his spare swords. He had a box of them, she knew, swords that he never used but always made Merlin keep sharp anyway. He'd never admitted it, but he kept them for sentimental reasons. There was his first sword, a miniature version of a knight's blade, forged for him when he had grown old enough to understand that he couldn't just stab anyone who displeased him. Then there was the sword that had won him his first tourney. There was the sword with which he had killed his first person. She'd never had the nerve to ask him if he kept that one as a point of pride or a reminder of what he had done and could never be undone. There was the ceremonial sword that he'd used before he'd retrieved Excalibur from the stone; he treasured _that_ blade far too much to take it on quests with him. Yes, he had a box of swords.

But where the _hell_ did he keep them? He always changed the subject when she asked, and she'd never been all that interested. She usually only asked when she wanted to make him feel guilty about something. It was too bad that Merlin wasn't there; he would have known where the swords were.

She lay back on the bed and covered her face with a pillow, trying to think of where they could be hidden. No one would break in, not with how she'd locked herself in; but a sword would have made her feel better. There were bangs and blasts and shouts and strange flashes of light from outside and she thought that she could smell smoke coming in through her windows. Someone would come for her. This waiting was dreadful. Someone would come and tell her what was going on. She just had to _wait_ and what did it matter if her friends were dying because she was the _queen_ and she just had to wait until someone came to tell her what was happening…

Suddenly, she heard a _click_ as the lock turned, and her heart skipped a beat. She sat up and stared at the door, breathing very quickly. There were only two keys to the door, and one of them was in her hand. The other was on Arthur's belt. Had Arthur come to her to tell what was going on?

She bit her lip, knowing that it couldn't be her husband. Arthur would have called out to her. Arthur would have said something to reassure her before he pounded on the door. It wasn't Arthur. But if Arthur carried the only other key and now there was someone else unlocking the door…her heart sank and she closed her eyes. What had happened to Arthur?

She shook her head and shoved herself up from the bed. This was no time to worry about what had happened to her husband. She'd drive herself mad if she did, and she very much needed to keep her mind clear. Someone was breaking in, and no doubt it was someone sinister. Any man of Camelot would have called to her.

There was a shove and an undignified "oof!" that came from the doorway, and she saw the door open a tiny crack. She felt a grim sense of satisfaction; the desk barricade was working. This enemy wasn't going to be getting into _her_ chambers. She was distantly glad that Arthur's desk was so absurdly long; it covered the entire doorway and nearly two feet of the stone of the wall on either side. No one was getting in.

Still, she would have liked to have had a sword. She saw what looked like an eye peering through the keyhole as she stood behind the desk and she fled to the opposite side of the room. Her heart ached for a moment; the eye had been such a deep blue that she'd been able to identify its color even from the distance, and it so reminded her of Arthur's that she hadn't wanted to look away.

That, however, would have been rather unwise. Apparently seeing Guinevere leave whatever space could be seen through the keyhole, the eye disappeared. She was just beginning to wonder what was going to happen next and think that just _maybe_ she ought to make a run for it and find somewhere where she could be of use when the desk blasted backward with such force that, when it hit the stone wall on the opposite side of the chamber, it skidded back toward the doorway once more, chunks and splinters of wood flying in every direction.

The door remained intact.

She lost herself and screamed.

She screamed rather loudly.

She didn't care. As far as screams went, she thought wildly, this one was pretty justified.

Then Guinevere collected herself and realized what the destroyed desk meant. It didn't matter how it had been destroyed; it mattered that the owner of the blue eye would be able to get in. Her barricade was gone. And she doubted that he was the only one. These were the royal chambers, and she had just screamed; the invaders would know that someone of importance was within. There would certainly be many of them.

Hands shaking, she picked up one of the legs of the desk that survived the smashing. Clutching it tightly in her hands, she moved to the doorway and stood next to it, back flat against the wall. So what if she was going to find herself face to face with a small army of enemies, armed only with a scratched desk leg? She would take one of them down with her.

The door opened. She closed her eyes and swung. She felt it connect, but there was no thump as a body fell to the floor, clobbered in the head with her…stick. No one even shouted. As she opened her eyes to a squint, she heard someone swear exasperatedly.

She knew that voice.

"Merlin!" she gasped, releasing her hold on the table leg and letting it fall into Merlin's grasp where he had caught it before his face. "Thank goodness that I couldn't find a sword! I would have chopped your fingers off!"

He threw the table leg to the floor. "Hello to you too."

"I can't believe that you caught that!" she exclaimed, so very glad to see him that it didn't occur to her to apologize for trying to take his head off.

"I'm glad I did," said Merlin, his voice strained. "I did not come rushing here to get clobbered in the head by the queen."

"I thought that you were confined to your chambers!"

Merlin snorted. "I thought that this was more important than sitting out whatever Arthur thinks I've done this time."

Merlin turned around and shut the door behind him. There was a click as the door locked, and she furrowed her brow. He must have had the key up his sleeve; it hadn't been in his hands when he'd caught her blow. Arthur _had_ always claimed that Merlin was sneakier than he looked.

"How did you get in here?" she asked, dogging his steps, grateful for the friendly—and hopefully well-informed—face. "Have you got Arthur's key? Did Arthur send you? Is Arthur okay?"

"I haven't seen Arthur," said Merlin, evading her questions. "I came straight here."

"Then how did you get in? How did you unlock the door?"

Merlin rolled his eyes, still shutting all of the windows in the room. "Arthur's desk is blasted to pieces, and you're wondering about the lock? For heaven's sake, Arthur is really rubbing off on you."

"Then how did you get in?" she yelled after Merlin, who had disappeared into the alcove that surrounded the second door in the chambers. She almost smiled; Merlin probably knew these rooms better than she did. Merlin probably knew these rooms better than _Arthur_ did.

But this was not the time for smiling. There was another loud _click_ as Merlin locked the second door. She'd forgotten the second door…

"How did you get in?" she asked again.

"Magic," said Merlin, not looking at her as he opened Arthur's wardrobe and began fiddling with his clothes.

She rolled her eyes. Never mind _her;_ Arthur was really rubbing off on _Merlin._ If Merlin thought that he had to spare Guinevere's delicate female feelings by avoiding her questions about the attack, he had another thing coming. Did he think that she couldn't hear the screams? Did he think that she couldn't recognize the sounds of a battle? Besides, _magic?_ Merlin ought to have at least come up with something more credible. He could have said that he'd secretly made copies of all of Arthur's keys. It wouldn't have surprised her. _Honestly,_ she thought. Magic?

"Merlin, I'm serious," she said, keeping her voice even. Now was not the time to argue with him. Besides, he was probably just saying what Arthur had instructed. Although Merlin said that he had not seen Arthur…why would he lie about that?

"So am I," said Merlin, still half standing in Arthur's wardrobe. She could only see his legs from the knee down; he almost looked as though he was hiding behind the doors of the cupboard. "I got in with magic."

She crossed her arms over her chest, taking as deep a breath as she could manage in her dress. Her new clothing was beautiful, to be sure, but _why_ all regal dresses had to be so tight was beyond her. "So you're trying to tell me that you had a sorcerer out there with you in the corridor who opened the door and blasted Arthur's desk and then ran away to let you in here on your own?"

"No, Gwen," said Merlin. "I used magic."

"_You_ used magic?" said Guinevere, laughing despite the situation. This was ridiculous. Was Merlin panicking and compensating by pulling pranks? If so, his panicky pranks were not very good. "You've been hiding being magic?"

"Yes, Gwen," Merlin intoned, and she scowled.

"No," she said, annoyed that he was carrying on with this when there were so many more important issues to address. "No. There's no way. You've been here for nearly a decade and_ really,_ Merlin, you're a terrible liar. You truly expect me to believe that you have magic?"

"_Yes,"_ said Merlin, sounding irritated. "Honestly, for all of the times that I've played this scenario in my head, I never thought that I'd have to do all kinds of _convincing_. It was usually yelling and throwing things..."

"Too bad," she retorted, flinching at a bang that echoed through the corridor outside of her chambers. She picked up the leg of the table that Merlin had dropped and began to twist her hands around it nervously. "And what on _earth_ are you doing in Arthur's wardrobe?"

"Packing," said Merlin distractedly. "And just _think_ about it, Gwen. Think of all of the times that strange things have happened around me and been called coincidence. Think of all the times that Arthur whined about how I really ought to have died by now. Think of all the times that Camelot has been saved and no one knew how, or all the times that Arthur lived when he should have died and think of _who_ was always with him when that would happen. _Think_ about it, and then tell me that it makes no sense."

So she thought about it. It was ridiculous, but Merlin was her friend. She thought about it.

And then she realized...there really _was_ something to think about.

There was the time, so long ago, when she'd been imprisoned for sorcery and he'd announced to the king that _he_ had been the one who had done the magic. Arthur had said that Merlin was just in love with her and claiming guilt out of a desire to save her life, but now that she thought about it…Merlin had seemed completely oblivious to the _crush_ that she'd had on him then. There was no way that he'd fallen in love with her. He'd been so naïve and innocent then…he _would_ have just come out and confessed like that.

Then there was the time that Gaius had admitted to sorcery to the Witchfinder and it came out at the end that he'd only done it to protect Merlin and Morgana from the Witchfinder's accusations. She and Merlin had proved Aredian guilty of setting innocent people up to die for sorcery, and she'd assumed that _all_ of Aredian's accused were innocent. But he'd been right about Morgana, hadn't he? Morgana had had magic, and Gaius had tried to protect her. Had Aredian been right about Merlin as well?

And what about how Merlin and Morgana had been so antagonistic toward one another when she had returned from her year with Morgause? Had they sensed the sorcery in one another, Merlin's good magic in conflict with Morgana's evil? Could that have been why they'd been so distant? Of course Merlin couldn't have accused her…she was the king's _ward…_and perhaps she did not want to accuse Merlin and have to admit how she knew of his magic. Could that have been what had happened?

And then Merlin hadn't been affected by the Lamia creature. Guinevere had seen with her own eyes as the knights fell one by one into her evil influence, falling for her charms. As a woman, she'd been spared, but she'd never understood why Merlin had as well. And the Lamia had lashed out every time that Merlin approached her…and Merlin had been so sure that she was a creature of magic…had they recognized it in one another?

Closing her eyes, she remembered when Merlin had disappeared into the forest when he'd been with Arthur and the knights as they'd been ambushed. Arthur had told her that Merlin had taken a mace to the chest and, although Arthur had been unwilling to consider it, she had known that it was unlikely that Merlin would survive with such a wound when in the hands of mercenaries. Yet he'd returned, healthy and whole. Granted, he'd been possessed and wanted to kill Arthur, but he hadn't _died…_as far as she could recall, he hadn't even been in any residual pain.

She remembered when Morgana had taken Arthur's throne and she and Merlin had had to chase her down as Arthur dealt with the more accomplished swordsman. She and Merlin had been alone against Morgana, and Guinevere had been incapacitated quickly enough. Then Morgana had been blasted away when there was no one else but Guinevere and Merlin, and _Guinevere_ certainly hadn't done it…

"Oh _no,"_ whispered Guinevere, covering her face with her hands and sitting down hard. How had no one seen it? Were they all so blind? Were they all so _stupid? _It was _right there_, so noticeable, there for anyone to see. There was too much coincidence for it to be coincidence. It was right _there…_

"Not such a bad liar, am I?" said Merlin softly. She didn't look up.

"Oh, Merlin," she said, her voice muffled through her hands. "I feel so _stupid…"_

Merlin gave a surprised laugh. "That's your first reaction?" he asked, the corners of his mouth twitching.

"Well, why shouldn't it be?" she asked defensively. "You've been here for nearly decade doing all sorts of magical things under everyone's noses—Uther's and Arthur's and _everyone's—_and no one noticed? You're one of my best friends, and I never even _suspected!_ Oh, I feel _so_ stupid…are you alright?"

Merlin went very still and covered the lower half of his face with the back of his hand. His eyes were bright.

She stood up and walked over to him, placing a hand on his cheek. He suddenly looked very young. "Please tell me the truth, Merlin," she said softly. "Are you alright?"

Merlin lowered his hand from his face and looked down at her. She couldn't read his expression, but he laughed.

"Gwen, please don't take this the wrong way," he said, his voice sounding rather thick. "But I love you very much right now."

So she did the only thing that she could think to do. After all, she'd been wanting to help someone. That was all that she'd wanted to do.

She put her arms around him and embraced him.

He leant into her immediately, and she put a hand on the back of his neck, rubbing softly as her mother had always done for her. Guinevere was almost certain that he was crying.

After a few moments, she felt him stiffen and begin to pull away. She loosened her grip and stepped back. He was running his hands through his hair and shaking his head.

"Okay, I can't do this right now," he said, all in a rush. "That's not why I came here. I probably shouldn't have said anything...I came to get you out."

Guinevere bit her lip. Despite all of the sounds of battle and destruction around them, she'd nearly forgotten why she'd been barricaded in the room in the first place. Finding out that _Merlin_ of all people had magic had done a bit to eclipse everything else in the situation. But Merlin was right. He would still have magic when this was all over. If they wanted it to end well for them, they had to focus on the situation at hand.

"Absolutely," she said. "What's going on? What can we do to help? If Gaius needs help with the wounded or setting up an infirmary, I can definitely—"

Merlin shook his head and cut her off. "I didn't just mean that I needed to get you out of this room. I need to get you out of Camelot."

She just stared at him for a moment. "You want to get me out of Camelot?"

"Yes," he said, smiling blandly at her, clearly trying to win her over and avoid the argument that was certainly going to follow _his_ plan.

"No!" she said, glaring at him. "I can't believe that _you_ of all people, Merlin, are playing the 'woman' card and trying to protect me before I get the vapors and swoon myself into enemy hands or something like that when I—"

"That's not what I mean," said Merlin, interrupting her. "I'm not doing this to protect you. Well, yes I am, but not for the reasons that you think. It's not because you're a woman. It's because you're the _queen."_

"What does _that_ mean?"

Merlin sighed and took a step toward her. "It means that something awful is happening right now in Camelot. I don't know exactly what, but it's not good. Someone is attacking the citadel and, from the sound of things, that someone might just be winning."

Her heart went cold. "You can't know that."

"No, I can't," he said calmly. "But I _do_ know that Arthur will not willingly leave Camelot while his city stands. He will not abandon his people, and if that means dying for them, you know as well as I do that he'll do it without a second thought."

"Because he's an idiot," she muttered.

Merlin gave a small smile. "I won't argue that. But if…Gwen, if the king falls, you need to survive. If the king is lost, the queen must endure. You cannot be a wife and a sister and a friend right now, Gwen. You lost that right when you married Arthur. Don't look at me like that, you know I'm right. I don't have time to soften this. You can't be Gwen right now. You have to be Queen Guinevere. You have to lead. Forget your heart. This time, you need to use your head. And I think that you know that. I think that you stayed in your chambers rather than rushing around for a reason."

She didn't say anything.

Merlin clearly took this as a good sign and continued. "And to answer your earlier question, the reason that I was fiddling with Arthur's clothes was because I'm putting together a disguise. I'm counting on Arthur sending a knight to check on you, and I'm going to send that knight with you. You'll both have to go incognito, so a cape and mail would not be the best clothing choice for a disguise. And can you get one of your old dresses out? Appearances aside, could you even _run_ in one of your queen dresses?"

Guinevere stared at him. "How did you even know that I kept my old dresses?"

"Arthur told me," said Merlin, looking relieved that she seemed to be giving up on the argument. She _did_ know that he was right. It was just so hard for her to face the fact that it was no longer her duty to stand and fight for those that she loved. Now, it was her duty to abandon them.

"Arthur told you that I kept my old dresses? How could that possibly ever come up in conversation between you two?"

Merlin shrugged and went to the door. His eyes flashed—she shivered and forced herself to not look away—and the lock clicked. Opening the door a few inches, he peeked outside. Checking for a knight, she realized, hating her passivity in the situation. She hastened to her own wardrobe and shoved aside her finery, digging out the old box in which she kept the clothes of the days before she had received her crown.

"When you're stuck together for as long as Arthur and I are stuck together, you run out of normal conversation topics after a while. And Arthur likes talking about you."

She paused and peeked out of her wardrobe at Merlin, ignoring a flash of light that was quickly followed by a shaking of the floor beneath her feet. Talking nonsense with Merlin was far more appealing just then. "What exactly does he tell you about me?"

Merlin grinned and pulled a box out from under the bed. "I forget," he said, opening the box. He threw one of the smaller swords and a scabbard onto the blankets. "You should probably be armed. Of course, if you'd prefer a chunk of desk, you're welcome to it, but I figured that I'd give you the option."

"They were just under the bed?" she asked indignantly.

Merlin tossed one of Arthur's tunics onto the bed next to the sword. "Arthur doesn't like this one anyway," said Merlin, looking at the shirt. "He says it's itchy, but I think that he'd just being childish. Hopefully it's not Percival who shows up. Any of the others will fit just fine."

Taking the hint, she yanked out a dress and apron. After a moment, she kicked off her high heels and pulled a pair of soft boots from the box of old clothes. Comfort-wise, she thought, being on the run wouldn't be so bad.

Pulling her hair down, she removed the crown that had been carefully woven in and tossed it the bottom of the wardrobe. She twisted her hair into a messy braid. Then she looked down at herself and realized that she had a bit of a problem. Reaching to her back, she tried to catch at the knot in her dress that kept her laces laced. It was _just_ out of her reach, and she suddenly had a vision of the various stretches and hops it was going to take for her to get out of this dress. Suddenly, she wished that she could send Merlin from the room. She didn't need a witness for this. Still. She could always get him to stay facing the other direction. Merlin had a sense of propriety, and he would surely not want to embarrass his friend.

"Merlin?" she called, dipping her shoulder and wiggling her fingertips vainly behind her. Who had _designed_ this dress?

"Hmm?" he answered distractedly. Glancing at him, she saw that he was holding two coats over the tunic and looking back and forth at them.

"For heaven's sake, Merlin, does it really matter if they match?"

"Old habits die hard," he said. Apparently making his decision, he lay one of the coats gently down on the bed next to the shirt. Then he threw the other coat back in the general direction of Arthur's wardrobe, and she almost laughed at the contradiction. "We're waiting on a knight anyway."

"Merlin," she began, inhaling as deeply as she could. "Do me a favor and don't look at me, okay?"

Naturally, he turned around and looked.

"Having a bit of trouble there, Gwen?" he asked, laughing.

She scowled. "You know, it's pathetic that _Arthur_ can't dress himself. With me, I think that it's understandable. When this is over, I'm having Arthur exile whoever sewed this gown."

He rolled his eyes. He walked behind her and, before she could say anything, he tugged at the knot and she felt it release at once. She stared at him, enjoying the sensation of breathing deeply even as she wondered whether or not that had been inappropriate. After all, it was just _Merlin..._

"I feel like I ought to slap you for that," she said, and he laughed. "Now stay turned around. I need to change."

Merlin held up his hands in surrender and walked back to the door to take another peek into the hallway. He shut it abruptly, and Guinevere sobered herself. There were people out there, and they were clearly not people that Merlin wanted realizing that the queen was within these chambers.

"No knight?" she called to him, tying her apron.

"No knight," he confirmed, still not looking.

"You can turn around," she said, trying to sound regal.

Merlin turned, looking surprised. "You managed to undress and then dress yourself faster than Arthur can _be_ dressed. And Arthur's clothes aren't exactly complicated. The armor, I can understand. But regular clothes? Not so much. He doesn't pay me nearly enough for the effort involved. I don't suppose that _you_ need a manservant, do you?"

She would have laughed. She wanted to laugh. But there was another crash and another flash and the floor trembled again and she didn't laugh.

"It's magic," said Merlin, following her gaze to the windows. The flashes were getting more frequent.

"Magic?" she repeated, surprised. "Are you sure?"

"Gwen, how many swords and spears and crossbows do you know of that make flashes like that?" asked Merlin flatly. "It's magic."

"Oh," she said. "That's not good. Do you think that it's Morgana?"

He shook his head. "From the sound of things, this is the work of more than one sorcerer. Morgana may be good at recruiting herself armies of men, but sorcerers are harder to find, and I can't imagine that many that she could find are quite so blindly homicidal as she is. We're not all evil, Gwen."

"Oh," she said again, wondering why she wasn't angrier and hating that Merlin had just lumped himself in the same league as Morgana.

"Yeah," he said, his voice toneless. "So you really need get out of here."

All at once, she felt dreadfully bad for Merlin. Why was he here at all? How was he on this side? How had he gotten himself in so deeply? Oh, why couldn't he just have had one side to want to defend? All these years…he must have been so lonely, she thought.

"Come with me," Guinevere said suddenly. "Magic or not, Merlin, you're no warrior. I could really use a friend at my side. Come with me."

He shook his head firmly and averted his eyes. "I can't."

"Why not?" she asked, suddenly eager. "I think that Arthur will forgive you for leaving your chambers if you went to help the queen. He gets so protective when these things happen. Come with me."

"I can't."

She put her hands on her hips and gave him her best glare. "Why not?"

Merlin just shrugged, looking vaguely embarrassed.

Then Guinevere laughed, suddenly understanding. She felt very sad and very proud for him at the same time. "You won't leave Arthur, will you? Even after everything, you won't leave him?"

"No, I won't," he said, laughing a little bit. "Isn't that ridiculous?"

He tossed her one of Arthur's cloaks and went to check at the second door. He turned around, frustrated, and they faced each other.

There was silence for a few moments.

"He'd kill you if he knew," she said conversationally.

Merlin just looked at her for a few moments, his face a mask. "Would he?" he asked seriously, looking as though he was asking the question for her benefit rather than his own. Arthur had once told her that there were times when it seemed that Merlin was the wise one in their interactions and that he was just waiting for Arthur to figure it out for himself. She hadn't understood, but now she thought that she might.

"Well…" she began, faltering as she thought about it. _Would_ Arthur have Merlin killed? It _was_ his law, after all.

"Give him more credit than that," said Merlin quietly. "Arthur is not Uther."

"But it's _magic…"_

"I'm his friend."

"Why must that make a difference?" she hissed, arguing as logically as she could, needing to give every protest that she could so that Merlin could convince her otherwise. "If anything, that you're his _friend_ would just make it worse! Besides, Uther nearly executed Gaius. They were friends."

"Arthur is not Uther," said Merlin. "And I'm not Gaius. Think about it, Gwen. We love our fathers, Arthur and I, but we're not the same as them. Magic or not, do you really think that I would have chosen Arthur's side if he started second Great Purge? And do you really think that Arthur ever order another one?"

"Uther lost his wife to magic," she whispered, defending the old tyrant for the sake of hearing Merlin argue back.

"Arthur lost his father to magic," Merlin countered, putting the lid back on the box of swords and shoving it under the bed. "And he didn't even hunt down the sorcerer who had done it. He's not all the way there yet, to making everything right, but I have faith in him."

"He's killed so many Druids," she whispered. "He believes magic evil. He believes _sorcerers_ evil. His laws dictate that sorcery is to be punished by death. He's everything that you should hate."

"Don't remind me," he muttered, rubbing his face with his hands.

"He's everything that you should hate," she repeated. "But you have faith in him."

He lowered his hands from his face to look at her, and he shrugged. "I always have."

And she began to weep.

Merlin put his hand on her shoulder.

All was silent save for the sorcery elsewhere on the castle grounds. How could it be so quiet and so peaceful for them in this one room when the rest of Camelot was going to hell? She wished that she didn't understand it.

Suddenly, there was a _bang_ as the door to the chambers flew open. Instantly, Merlin swerved away from the queen and pointed an arm at the doorway, and Gwen held the sword that Merlin had thrown to her at the ready.

In hindsight, she supposed that she could understand why Elyan was looking at them as though they were mad. Merlin, the idiot manservant, was pointing his arm at him, and his sister was brandishing a sheathed shortsword at him. After a moment, however, her brother shook his head and walked all of the way into the room, shoving the door closed behind him.

"Gwen! You're alright!" he shouted, clearly relieved. Then, looking bewildered, he turned to the other man in the room. "…And Merlin's here too!"

"Elyan!" Gwen breathed, feeling such a sense of relief wash over her that she realized that she'd been tenser than she'd thought. It wasn't just a knight who had come to them, it was her _brother._ She rushed to him and hugged him tightly. Elyan patted her awkwardly on the back, and she laughed into his chainmail.

"Arthur sent me to look after you," he said, peeling himself free of Guinevere. "He wanted to make sure that you hadn't run off."

She scowled, and Merlin laughed. Elyan looked at Merlin again.

"And he sent Percival to find _you,"_ said Elyan, looking suspicious. "He wanted you brought to the queen's chambers."

Merlin nodded, not looking surprised. Guinevere cut him off before he could speak.

"So Arthur's alright? He's not hurt?"

Elyan shook his head. "Not last that I saw. He was assembling the knights in the throne room. It's all mad down there, Gwen. He would have come for you himself, but—"

"Oh, that doesn't matter," she said impatiently. "Have there been many losses?"

"It's hard to say right now," he answered. "Arthur said that I wasn't to make any stops until I found you. Unless I found Merlin first, that is."

He looked at the other man again.

"I hoped that it would be you," said Merlin.

"What do you mean?"

"You're Gwen's brother," Merlin explained. "You're easier with her. And you care the most. I knew Arthur would send you if he could. You'll be best."

"The best for _what?"_ asked Elyan cautiously, apparently picking up on the idea that Merlin wasn't just referring to Arthur sending him to look after Guinevere.

"Alright," said Merlin brusquely, rubbing his hands together. "Gwen, you explain the plan. Elyan, you change into those clothes on the bed. Yes, they're Arthur's, but that doesn't matter. You'll understand in a minute."

Elyan looked more bewildered than ever, but he had heard that tone in Merlin's voice before. He looked at his sister and gestured for her to continue. Beginning to explain, she turned away as he began to change into Arthur's clothing. She glanced at Merlin, who had gone over to her desk and begun writing something.

When she finished, Elyan looked at Merlin uncertainly. "Are you sure about this, Merlin? Arthur only told me to find the queen and look after her…"

"This was Arthur's plan," said Merlin, not looking up from his sheet of parchment. "Well, mine and Arthur's. We worked it out ages ago. He said—and I agreed—that it was best if no one else knew of it unless the worst were to happen and we'd have to do it. If anyone were to be captured, it would be best that they wouldn't know about the plan to get the queen out. Sorry, Gwen. I know that you hate it when we don't tell you things."

Oh.

That explained a lot.

"That's why you came to me instead of Arthur," she whispered.

"Yep," said Merlin, standing up and walking back to them. "Not that I wouldn't have wanted to see you safe even if we didn't have this all worked out."

Elyan stared at him. "He really trusts you."

Merlin sighed and met Guinevere's eyes. "Yes, he does."

He did. Arthur trusted Merlin more than almost anyone. And why shouldn't he? Merlin had stood by his side through just about the hardest of hardships that the universe could think to throw in his direction. Merlin had been utterly loyal. Arthur had been betrayed by so many people, but Merlin had always been there. Yet there was just one little secret that stood between them and it would change everything...no wonder Merlin had never told anyone.

But now she knew, and everything was different.

"Will you tell him?" she asked, knowing what Merlin was thinking.

"I think that I might have to this time," said Merlin. "I don't think that I can do it in a secret this time. There's too much at stake."

"Do what?" interjected Elyan, clearly lost.

"Save the day," he said, rolling his eyes at himself. "Here."

Guinevere took the piece of parchment that he held out to her. It looked like a map of some sort. "What's this?"

"It's a floorplan of the castle. You two will need to take the southern tunnels out of the castle. Yes, there are southern tunnels out of the castle. Go into the library and follow—just follow the map, it's hard to explain. You'll come out near the foaling barn. There should be horses there ready for you. Non-foaling horses, that is. Go into the treeline. From there, it's up to you."

"But—"

"You should go," said Merlin. He looked from her to Elyan. "Remember, you're not a queen and a knight. You're peasants."

Elyan smiled. "We lived most of our lives as peasants. I think that we'll manage."

Merlin nodded. "Go."

Guinevere bit her lip but held her tongue. Was there really anything to say that they hadn't already said? Was there really anything to say that _Elyan_ could be allowed to overhear? No, she decided. Whatever they might need to say would keep until they met again. Besides, until Arthur found out, she somehow felt that this was a secret that should be kept between the two of them.

Elyan went to the door and checked the corridor, making sure that it would be safe for them to leave. She wondered how long it would be until she was back in these chambers. She wondering what the castle would be like when she did. She wondered who would be waiting for her.

"I don't suppose that I have to ask you to look after him?" asked Guinevere, her voice very small as she clutched the map tightly in her hands.

"I chose my side a long time ago, Gwen," said Merlin quietly.

"And look after yourself too, okay?" she said.

He just smiled. "My place is at Arthur's side. I have to look after one to look after the other."

Elyan called for her, and she donned the cloak. Arthur's cloak. How had Merlin known to give her Arthur's rather than her own? She'd always loved Arthur's cloak. It was so billowy and warm and just so _Arthur_...how had he known to give her this cloak?

She hoped that Merlin was right about Arthur.

"You're like two sides of the same coin," she murmured as Elyan ushered her out the door.

The last thing that she heard before her brother shut the door behind them was Merlin laughing.

.

.

.

**Sorry for the length-it really got out of hand! **

**I know that I say this every time, but I was REALLY unsure about this one. I had it all playing out in my head, but I wasn't sure how it would come across written.**

**Thank you for reading! Reviews are always greatly appreciated. **


	7. Scenario VI

**Disclaimer: **_**Merlin**_** is not mine.**

All in all, he liked questing.

Of course, his official stance was that he preferred questing with regal mandate rather than regal accompaniment, knowing that it was unwise for the king to leave his citadel every time that he got itchy feet and wanted to go on an adventure. Loyal as he was to the king, the queen had roped him into her viewpoint with her usage of logic—generally a very inconvenient concept when it came to their questing—that Arthur ought to place more value on his life than to go riding off into the forest whenever word reached them of some fugitive to be captured or artifact to recover or artifact to recover from a fugitive or any such mission that could be easily handled by a regular band of knights.

Still, he'd been questing with Arthur ever since the king had been little more than a boy prince with an unnotched sword and intact cape. Between the nostalgia and pride that he felt at seeing the king with majesty riding into the unknown and the knightly fondness for adventure, he tended to enjoy riding into the unknown at Arthur's side. Besides, on missions such as these, when the knights of the original round table as designated when Morgana and Morgause had taken the castle at Camelot rode out together, it was generally a good time. Granted, there was usually ambush and murder and mayhem at some point during all such missions, but they were always…refreshing. Rejuvenating. Even a mission such as this, which had proved surprisingly uneventful, considering that they had ridden three days through the forest to recover what was apparently an ancient magical crystal that was said to lay in a cave near the borders, Leon was enjoying himself. In fact, all of them seemed to be having a good time of it, save for perhaps one.

Merlin had been cheerful enough on the ride out. Admittedly, however, "cheerful" for Merlin as of late was meaning more or less genuine civility and willingness to converse, but he hadn't been particularly withdrawn. Leon had always gotten the impression that he enjoyed riding out with these knights of the round table as much as they did. Yes, despite the fact that he spent most of this time trying to convince Arthur that there was no way that this ancient crystal was _still_ in the cave where it was said to have been abandoned, Merlin had been amenable enough.

Then they had made it to the cave and, with surprising ease, discovered the crystal. It was a crystal of some infamy, if Gaius was to be believed. It had a name, but it had been so unnecessarily multi-syllabic and accented—and well, _magical_—that Leon hadn't paid much attention to its title. Whatever it was, it was supposed to be an immensely powerful vessel for prophecy. Depending on the sorcerer, Gaius had said, looking wary as he realized that Arthur intended to take Merlin and the knights out on a quest to retrieve it before some sorcerer got his hands on it. Leon thought that he understood why. Gaius wasn't a young man, and Merlin's able legs and frustrating selflessness were very helpful to the aging physician. Of course Gaius wouldn't want Merlin chasing after some mythical powerful crystal.

Plus, assistance aside, Gaius loved Merlin as a son, and if there was even the slightest possibility that there was some powerful sorcerer waiting for them and—if capable of wielding this "prophetic" crystal—fully aware of their arrival time and plan of attack, of course Gaius would rather that Merlin not be present. Merlin always seemed so oddly hesitant when it came to magic that Leon knew that Merlin must have just not wanted to show how fearful he was of it. Leon couldn't blame him; lovable as he was, Merlin was no warrior. He was a servant_,_ and he didn't even carry a sword on the missions. The knights would always go out of their way to protect him, but there was always risk.

But Gaius had probably spent every minute between Arthur's proclamation that he intended to go after this crystal—which automatically meant that Merlin was going as well—and the hour of their departure filling Merlin's ears with the horrors of the crystal. Leon wasn't surprised that Merlin was so wary of the thing.

Still, he didn't even want to _touch_ it. He even grew antsy every time that he was within a few feet of it. They hadn't picked up on it at first, but when Arthur had noticed that Merlin was taking an awful lot of initiative and keeping busy as they set up camp that they found that he was busying himself everywhere that was not around the crystal.

Of course, they'd called him on his avoidance, and he'd admitted it readily enough, claiming that they ought to take advantage of his motivated service while it lasted, and if they would just keep the crystal away from him, he'd be the most helpful servant who ever served. He'd said it with a smile, taking their jests in stride, as though acknowledging the sheer _silliness_ of avoiding the crystal, refusing to so much as brush it with a finger. It hadn't exactly been showing any powers. It was more or less a rock that just happened to be transparent. Yes, he'd smiled at the silliness.

But he still wouldn't go near the crystal. If anything, he began to stay even farther away from it than before, even surely knowing that the teasing would only increase. His smiles grew more and more forced until he finally snapped that he just wanted to stay away from the crystal and that he didn't think that that was too much to ask and that they should just put it away and hide it until they got it back to the vaults and locked it away forever.

Merlin rarely snapped, so it was sufficient to give him some peace for nearly an entire hour. They weren't wholly insensitive and he was their friend. His protests had grown more and more distressingly irritated the longer that they'd pestered him, so they naturally gave up in their attempts to persuade him to just _touch_ the crystal.

Even more naturally, they had spent the last hour that morning trying to trick Merlin into picking it up. Merlin had gotten huffy when he'd realized that they hadn't given it up. Leon supposed that he'd thought that once they all got a good night's sleep that the teasing would stop, but Merlin lacked such luck. Such was his lot as the youngest and clearly most innocent of them all. They were too fond of him to leave him be. So, once they'd wakened and waited for the horses to be ready for departure, the ribbing began again.

To his credit, Arthur was having no part of it. Leon had been surprised at the king's reluctance; from the way that his mouth twitched every time that Merlin swore at a close call, Arthur wasn't exactly opposed to the jesting. But then, Merlin had been rather touchy with Arthur as of late, to the point that the knights noticed and sensed the legitimacy behind it to the extent that they were too uncomfortable at the tension to tease either of them for it. The strangest part of it was that Arthur seemed to be the one going out of his way to mend matters. Leon thought that it was all rather touching, in a manly sort of way, that Arthur was managing to show that he actually cared about Merlin's state of mind, especially since Arthur clearly didn't know what had caused this rift between them. Then again, Arthur tended to keep Merlin by his side for the majority of the day, so Leon supposed that he might have just grown so annoyed with Merlin's distance that he was willing to try to bridge the gap to get it over with.

Whatever the reason, Arthur wasn't participating.

That is, Arthur wasn't participating until he saw Merlin crack half of a smile at one of Gwaine's flimsier attempts to trick him into touching the crystal. For the sake of Gwaine's intelligence, Leon sincerely hoping that his attempt to slip the crystal into Merlin's jacket pocket without the servant noticing was more of a friendly attempt to soften him up than a legitimate try to trick him into touching. Either way, Merlin gave a tiny hint of a smile at the earnestly innocent expression on Gwaine's face when the plot was discovered—immediately—and Arthur had been roped into the shenanigans, which was good for everyone. Except perhaps Merlin. If anyone could devise an ingenious and detailed plan to trick Merlin into touching the crystal, it would be the strategist king who just so happened to be closer to Merlin than perhaps anyone else in the five kingdoms. Yes, the king would surely have a brilliant plan.

"Hey, Merlin," called Arthur, tossing the crystal up and down in his right hand. "Catch."

Before Merlin could turn to register what Arthur was actually doing, Arthur lobbed the crystal in a gentle underhand at his manservant.

Then, things began to happen very quickly.

Merlin, accustomed to having things thrown at him by the king, raised his arms to catch—or at least block—whatever it was before he got a good look at it. Leon felt a sudden stab of guilt; Merlin could well have ducked and missed the throw altogether, but he was so assured of the fact that Arthur wouldn't actually throw anything _harmful_ at him that he automatically meant to receive it.

Then, just before the crystal touched his fingertips, Merlin seemed to realize what it was. His eyes widened and he had just enough time to look up at his king and the knights with a look of such reproachful dread that Leon immediately wished that they could take it all back.

Merlin caught the crystal.

And before he had the chance to drop it or toss it away, Merlin collapsed.

Then he went rigid and began to shake.

Gwaine got to him first. He reached for the crystal to yank it away. Temporarily thrown by this grim turn of events, Leon didn't understand at first; Merlin was having a fit, and Gwaine's first instinct was to deprive Merlin of what he was holding? Gwaine would have been a rather heartless pickpocket, Leon thought distantly. But then, Merlin had been fine before he'd caught the damn thing. Perhaps taking it away was the best way to stop whatever was happening to him.

With a hand on Merlin's shoulder, bracing the young man down in what Leon suspected was Gwaine's effort to hold Merlin steady, Gwaine snatched at the crystal.

In an instant, he yanked his hand back. Leon saw that his entire hand turned a bright red. Gwaine was grimacing and looking at Merlin with a combination real fear and pain, and Leon understood. Gwaine had been burned. Badly, if Leon's experience with burns was anything to go by. He'd seen too many knights wounded by dragon flame to easily forget what it looked like for a strong man to be crippled by something that could be so painful yet seem so insignificant. Even as he looked, he thought that he saw the skin on Gwaine's palm beginning to blister. That seemed odd; did burns blister that quickly? It must have been dreadfully hot. Poor Gwaine…

Then, Leon realized, and his heart dropped into his stomach. If Gwaine had been so badly burned by touching the crystal for only an instant, what was going to happen to Merlin, who held it as he twitched? There would be no healing, certainly. Gwaine looked as though he'd be in for some serious recuperation before he'd be able to take up a sword again, and Merlin was _clutching_ it…Feeling sick, Leon forced himself to look back at the young manservant and face the damage that he had been a part of inflicting.

Merlin's hands were pale.

Leon felt sicker than ever. It didn't make sense. Merlin's finger's were grasping the smooth surface, the rigidity of the muscles in his arms making him look as though he'd never surrender his grip without losing his digits in the process. But those digits would not be lost by burning. His skin was smooth and undamaged, marred only by the callouses that marked his station. Leon would have almost assumed that Gwaine's burn had been a sudden burst of heat, fading immediately and leaving the crystal as strangely cool to the touch as it had ever been. But Merlin's hands weren't injured at all, and Leon saw that Merlin's shirt was beginning to smoke where he clutched the crystal to his abdomen. This crystal was clearly hot and burning. But Merlin was not.

Leon found his hand automatically drifting to the hilt of his sword, not knowing why such a reaction should have struck him at that moment. No, it didn't make any sense at all, and when things didn't make sense like _this_ was not making sense, bad things tended to happen…but this was _Merlin_…surely not…

Leon, however, seemed to be the only one of the knights who'd kept his composure well enough to take in the situation, and he thought—not for the first time—that as brave and skilled and loyal as these of his fellow knights were, there was truly something to be said for proper knightly training. They were instinctual and reactive; Leon could step back. Arthur had taught him that.

Arthur, however, seemed just as panicky as the rest of them. Leon wasn't surprised. Arthur_ had_ been the one who had tossed the crystal to Merlin. Indirectly and unintentionally it may have been, but Arthur was the reason that Merlin was having fits on the forest floor. Plus, it was _Merlin_, and he was Arthur. Of course Arthur was a bit preoccupied.

So preoccupied, in fact, that he did not seem to hear Leon's call of warning as he leapt to Merlin's side, taking the position vacated by Gwaine. Leon wasn't offended; between his concern and the fact that this was all happening so quickly, Arthur probably wasn't registering much more than what was happening to his manservant.

Still, the king burning his flesh off of his bones wouldn't help anyone, even if he _was_ wearing gloves. Leon, knowing that he wouldn't be there in time, jumped forward to pull Arthur back. His attempt proved, however, entirely futile, for no sooner had Arthur touched Merlin's arm than he was thrown back, a shimmer in the air as though the still-chilled clearing in which they had camped had suddenly been overcome by a heat wave. Arthur landed hard, half a dozen feet back from Merlin, crying out in what Leon was certain was surprise rather than any pain. Arthur had faced far worse without so much as a wince. But this…

No one moved.

The grass around Merlin's body began to brown, taking the dead and brittle color that was indicative of a lengthy drought rather than anything that would have normally made any sense on a dewy morning such as this. In the back of his mind, where he was still a trained knight, Leon wondered if it was going to catch fire. But not a wisp of smoke rose up from the grass. The brown just spread out into a circle around Merlin, stopping only just before Arthur's boots, where the king still sat on his backside on the forest floor.

Merlin twitched more violently than ever and the knights all moved forward, standing with their toes at the edge of the circle of brown grass. Percival extended a hand to yank Arthur to his feet. He had to physically reach down and grab the king's arm; Arthur didn't seem capable of looking away from Merlin, and Leon knew. The other knights might not have figured it out just yet, but Arthur had and if Arthur believed, then Leon could certainly embrace his own suspicions as truth. There was a reason why this crystal was affecting Merlin when it hadn't affected any of the others. And Merlin had known it. He had actively kept himself away from the crystal, surely knowing that something bad would happen if he got too close. This was no accident or incident of unfortunate timing. They couldn't even blame the crystal for casting an influence over one of them at random. Merlin had been apprehensive about finding the crystal even before they'd reached the cave. Merlin had known that this would happen. Merlin was...

Merlin gave one final almighty jerk, his back arching so utterly that it looked an inch away from snapping. Then, finally, he was still, save for a few twitchings as he lay facedown on the forest floor, his head in their direction. Leon had the impression that the lingering twitches weren't so much continuations of the great jerkings as they were of his body calming itself down. After a few seconds, Merlin pushed himself up onto all fours and retched down at the ground, looking as though he was about to vomit all of his organs. But his innards remained intact and he just coughed for nearly a minute, the coughs echoing through the silent stillness of the clearing. As the coughing ceased, Merlin raised a hand and rubbed at his eyes, breathing deeply as he wiped the tears of strain away. Leon waited for Merlin to rise to his feet, but after Merlin tried to push himself up, the young man's elbows bucked and he fell down onto his forearms. A tremor ran through Merlin's body, and Leon finally took the time to realize that he was horrified.

Then, someone moved. Leon didn't know who it was. _He_ was hardly breathing, and Arthur looked as though he had turned into a statue. But someone moved, and a twig snapped.

Immediately, Merlin's head snapped up. Leon was shocked to see an expression of what was almost _ruthlessness_ on his face. Ruthlessness, and desperation.

Then, Merlin's eyes glowed, and Leon felt himself flung backward, colliding with Elyan and Percival at his sides as he hit the ground. He propped himself up and gave a cursory glance at the others, checking for injuries. He realized with a start that Arthur wasn't present. Had he...disintegrated? Leon sat all the way up and scanned the clearing, searching for the king.

Arthur was standing just where he had been before Merlin's eyes had glowed and proved their suspicions correct and changed everything. Merlin hadn't blasted him back. Somehow, Arthur had remained on his feet.

The knights stood, and it was not until Gwaine stumbled his way back forward to stand at Arthur's side that Leon realized that none of them had wanted to walk any closer to Merlin.

As they did, however, Merlin shook his head and looked at them again. Leon stopped in his tracks and braced himself, wondering if that would make any difference if Merlin did it again.

But Merlin's eyes remained blue and, blinking several times, he said, "Oh."

And he fell to his forearms again, staring at the ground and shuddering.

No one spoke. One by one, Leon saw them all steal glances at Arthur. Somehow, it felt like Arthur should be the first to say something. It wasn't so much that Arthur was king, although that certainly helped Leon justify the waiting. It was that this was _Merlin_, and he was _Arthur_, and the rest of them probably shouldn't have even been there.

After what felt like hours, Merlin finally stood. He swayed dangerously on his feet, and Leon was half convinced that Merlin would be hitting the ground for a third time before Merlin planted his feet and steadied himself, standing directly in the center of his circle of dead grass. He looked exhausted, but very alert.

If somewhat...manic. Leon wondered how that was possible. How could a man be both exhausted _and_ manic? He then wondered if perhaps he was not wondering about the most important thing just then. There were a few more pressing matters that he ought to be considering. Like what the hell was happening. And what the hell Arthur was going to say.

Ultimately, however, it was not Arthur who broke the silence. And it was _certainly_ not how Leon had expected the silence to break.

"All that I asked," said Merlin, his voice low and angry beneath the exhaustion. "Was that I not have to touch the crystal. That was _all_ that I asked of you. Just don't make me touch it. Keep it away from me. That was _all._ If I had realized that not wanting to touch something was far too much to _ask_ of you, sirs of Camelot, this might not have happened. But _no,_ you had to act like _children_ rather than knights—the finest knights in the five kingdoms, or so I've been led to believe—and force something on me that I _clearly_ and _seriously_ did not want. Why did you have to do it…this was supposed to be _mine_ to do or not do…I didn't even get to control…it wasn't supposed to _be_ like this!"

Merlin picked the crystal up from the browned grass beneath his feet and hurled it at the assembled knights, all of whom ducked and scattered before it could touch them. Merlin just laughed nastily.

"Oh, any of _you_ can touch it. You could stuff it in your breeches for the rest of your lives and you'd be _fine._ I am the _only one_ here who would have been…" Merlin trailed off, a shiver running through his body and chattering his teeth. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply for a few moments.

"You don't even know what you've done," he said quietly, his voice so full of despair that Leon almost forgot why he was backing away every time that Merlin took another step toward them. "You don't even _know…"_

"Then why don't you explain it?" asked Arthur, his voice shaky, and relief washed over Leon. Arthur would make sense of this. Arthur would make it okay. "I think that you have some explaining to do."

"Explain it? I can't _explain_ it," answered Merlin, laughing with a hint of hysteria. He began to pace, walking the rim of his circle of dead grass with a hurried step, occasionally having to hold his arms out to his sides to maintain balance. "I can't even _register_ any of it yet. It's all images and flashes and sounds and when I close my eyes, I can _see_ them and I can _hear_ them and so help me, I can _feel_ them, but…I can't really see them, not yet. I can't get rid of them, either, so thanks for that. And they're all going to _happen..._Oh, this never ends well…"

"_What_ never ends well?"

"You don't even know what you've done…"

"Then _explain—_"

"I hate crystals. I hate crystals. I hate crystals," Merlin muttered, pacing faster. He was looking nauseous again, and Leon wondered why he didn't stop walking in circles. He began to stumble over his own feet and tripped so tipsily that he had to push himself off of the ground with his fingers to remain on his feet. He was very pale and his eyes were so hollow that the blue was an eerie contrast to the rest of his face. "Crystals and seers and prophecies and visions. What good do they ever do? And they _always_ happen with me…"

"Shut up, Merlin," Arthur interrupted, looking alarmed. "Stop moving and shut up."

"You asked me to explain!" Merlin retorted, walking faster in what Leon was sure was an attempt to spite Arthur, stumbling all the more for it.

"You look like you're going to collapse!" Arthur answered, genuine concern in his voice. Leon thought that Merlin might have detected it, and his pace slowed once more.

"I well might, although I'd rather not. I don't really want to dream right now."

"So walking around in a circle all day is going to help you stay conscious?" Arthur's voice grew louder and louder.

"Don't speak as though you know what you're talking about, Arthur Pendragon," said Merlin, another shudder running through his body. He nearly tripped at the interruption. Leon saw that Merlin wasn't watching where he was going. It was almost admirable how he was managing to stay at the edge of his dead circle, but it was most unfortunate that Merlin seemed either unwilling or incapable of speaking and maneuvering himself safely at the same time at the state that he was in.

"Merlin…"

"What?"

Arthur didn't answer. He took a very deep breath, then stepped toward Merlin's circle with palms forward in what Leon assumed was a gesture of peace. It was more than _he_ could have managed at that moment, but then, Leon wasn't the king. And he wasn't any more anxious than Arthur for Merlin to fall and go into fits again, discarded crystal or not. Arthur was making a gesture, and Leon only hoped that Merlin would take the generosity with some semblance of gratitude.

"Oh, I wouldn't touch me if I were you," said Merlin, glancing at Arthur.

"Why?" asked Arthur, stopping in his tracks. "Are you still…repellant?"

"No," said Merlin, laughing unkindly once again. "I'm angry_."_

Leon supposed that perhaps "repellant" _had_ been a rather poor choice of word, accuracy aside.

"_You're_ angry?"

"Yes, Arthur, _I'm_ angry_."_

_"_How exactly is _that_ fair?" asked Arthur, sounding indignant. Leon almost rolled his eyes.

Merlin shook his head back and forth with a deliberation that was almost unsettling as it contrasted the uncontrolled trembling of the rest of him. "Because I can't _think_ straight and my heart is racing like its going to explode in my chest and I can't seem to stop shaking and I'm seeing these things every time that I blink and I hear things every time that no one speaks and I know that they're going to mean something for sometime and I don't want them to and _all_ that I wanted was to not touch the crystal because this is _mine_ and it was supposed to be _mine_ to control, mine to tell, mine to hide, mine to use…It's all that's only mine…It was supposed to be _mine_…" Merlin trailed off again, suddenly sounding as though he wanted to weep. "You're the king of Camelot. You have _everything._ Why couldn't this just be mine..?"

Leon suddenly wondered if Merlin even knew that he and the rest of the knights were even present. He was focused only on Arthur, and even _that_ seemed to be costing him effort. His eyes were so bright, and judging from the increasing flush in his face from his previous pallor, he hadn't been exaggerating about his heartbeat. His whole body shook and, as Leon watched, Merlin gave another twitch. His nose began to bleed and, from the rapidity of his heartbeat, the blood dripped so swiftly that Merlin noticed almost immediately. Wiping at it with his sleeve, Merlin swore.

"Of course. Of course. This is _all_ that I need. Wonderful. Be sure to let me know if brain matter starts to drip out, Arthur," said Merlin tiredly. "That wouldn't bode well for any of us."

"Can't you…"

"_What?"_

"Can't you…I don't know…can't you just heal yourself?"

Merlin laughed, thickly through the nosebleed. "Arthur, if I tried to do magic on myself right now, I think that I would blow up my head."

The alarm intensified on Arthur's face, and Leon saw the king take what he was sure was an unconscious step forward. "Whatever's happened, whatever you've…experienced…Merlin, it's not worth blowing up your head."

Merlin rolled his eyes and dropped his hand from his face. There was red all over it. "Not _deliberately,_ Arthur," he said, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I just…there's too much _in_ me right now."

"I don't understand."

"Look over at that log there," said Merlin, stopping his pace and pointing at a huge fallen tree on the far side of the clear. There were branches and twigs jutting out at all angles, Leon recalled. They'd broken some of the branches off for firewood when it had grown too dark the night before to go foraging in the woods. "See it?"

The knights nodded collectively. Arthur was the only one to give any real answer. Leon figured that it was just as well. If the other knights were feeling anything like he was, they weren't in any sort of rush to include themselves in this conversation.

"I see it," said Arthur, a sort of forced calm in his voice.

"Okay, I'm going to break that twig. The one on top, see it? I'm just going to try to snap it off."

"You can do that?"

"I did it last night. I do little things like that all the time. It's easier to hide breaking twigs and sparking fires and summoning brushes than it is to do anything big and, you know, satisfying. On any normal day, I could definitely break off that twig. Even from here."

Arthur just nodded, looking nervous. Merlin shrugged and looked at the log. Leon followed his gaze, not wanting to be looking at Merlin's eyes when he broke the twig. Still, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Merlin raise a hand toward the log. He muttered a single strange word that Leon didn't understand. Leon didn't care; he just looked at the twig, waiting for it to snap.

The log exploded.

Bits of the tree flew out in every direction with astonishing speed, small wood chips and sharp shards and slivers so slender and yet with such force that Leon was sure that they could have sliced through anything that happened to be in the way. He was fairly certain that several of the trees behind what had been the log had been impaled with chunks of the wood.

As one, the knights and Arthur looked back at Merlin. Out of the corner of his eye, Leon saw Gwaine brushing bits of tree out of his hair with his good hand. Arthur, however, only had eyes for Merlin.

"_That's_ what you call breaking a twig?" Arthur demanded, his voice shriller than Leon had ever heard it.

Merlin shrugged, wiping at his nose again. "Technically, I did break the twig."

"Along with the tree!"

"Do you see now why I'm not going to try to do anything that would involve my head right now?"

"I thought that you said that you could control this!"

"Well, incredibly powerful crystals that channel everything that I am through them and then back in again tend to throw me off a little bit, Arthur!"

"How many times has this happened to you?"

"I'm making a point, Arthur!"

"How has this turned into _you_ yelling at _me?"_

"Has it occurred to you that I might be a little scared right now?" asked Merlin, sounding angrier than ever. "I don't know what the _hell_ that I'm supposed to do with myself and I don't know how I'm supposed to deal with _you _and I don't know how I'm supposed to face everyone in Camelot and I don't even know if I can climb onto a horse right now and—"

"_Deal_ with me?" yelled Arthur, drowning out Merlin for the first time, and Leon was glad. "What does that mean? What do you mean to do with us?"

"Stop being so pedantic."

"_Pedantic?"_

"It means obsessing over details and—"

"I know what it means, Merlin!" Arthur hissed. "Count on you to go into vocabulary when you're about to collapse."

"While, I don't see why you're insisting on _being_ pedantic. I would think that you'd be more concerned with the bigger picture right now. I am."

"I just saw you blow up a log from fifty feet away and then say that you're going to 'deal with' me and you think that I'm being illogically pedantic?"

"Well, I'm not going to hurt anyone," said Merlin, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world, eyes glittering. His face was very red. "When I threw you all backwards, that was just instinctive. Defense, you know. Not that I don't want to stab a few people with that damn _crystal_ until they—stop _looking_ at me like that, Arthur, you're being far too literal. I just meant that I don't know how I'm supposed to try to explain this when I can't even think straight and I just _blew up a log_ that I meant to knock a twig off of. What's going to happen if I _try_ to blow something up? And I'd knock myself out and try to sleep it off if I didn't think that I might blow something up in my sleep. I've done magic sleeping before, and I don't want to take down the forest or kill anyone because that damn _crystal _is working itself out in my brain. I don't know what to _say_ and I have to say something because I'm scared and you're scared and everyone's scared and probably debating whether or not I ought to be killed before I take down the forest or kill someone or make a dashing escape so that I can return with an army of others like me and take down the citadel—I can at least promise that I'm not going to do _that_ one, I think—and I'm probably one more rant away from falling over and I'm embarrassed and sad and scared and worried and embarrassed and did I say that one already and I'm tired and sore and every time that I close my eyes and try to figure anything out my nose starts to bleed but I _need_ to talk I think and—"

Merlin shuddered and fell.

No one moved.

Arthur just stared.

Merlin sat up and bent over his knees, covering his face with his hands. He shook.

No one moved.

Arthur breathed heavily.

Merlin wiped his hand across his nose. Looking down, Merlin raised his head and removed his neckerchief. Crumpling it with an expression of such blankness that Leon wondered if Merlin hadn't lost himself completely, he held the blue neckerchief to his face, blotting the blood. It was one of the few times that Leon had ever seen Merlin without a neckerchief.

Finally, someone moved. In his periphery, Leon saw Arthur run his hand through his hair, an expression of sudden sadness and what looked curiously like sympathy on his face. Leon didn't understand. Merlin had cut quite a more pathetic figure during his nonsensical rant, but his using his neckerchief as a bandage was what was getting through to Arthur? He didn't understand.

Whatever the motivation, Arthur reached for one of their packs. Pulling out a skein fat with water, he walked slowly toward the fallen sorcerer. His stride was purposeful until he reached the edge of Merlin's circle, and it was rather gingerly that he stepped from the dewy green grass to the dead brown upon which Merlin sat. Once he'd planted a foot and found that he hadn't flown backward or burned or exploded, Arthur quickened his pace again. Sitting himself down heavily on the ground next to the servant, Arthur with surprising gentleness withdrew the neckerchief from Merlin's grasp. Leon saw that the bleeding had stopped again, but Merlin's face was smeared red. Arthur, without looking directly at Merlin's face, opened the water skein and wet the fabric before handing it back to Merlin. Merlin took it, hand still shaking, and began to wipe at his face. When he was clean, Arthur wordlessly took the neckerchief back and traded the water skein. Merlin took it and began to drink. Arthur uncrumpled the neckerchief with more precision that Leon would have supposed the king possessing when it came to uncrumpling and laid it on the brown grass, presumably to dry.

After a few moments, Merlin lowered the water skein. Leon saw that it looked much less plump, and he could have sworn that Merlin's shaking was lessened, just a little bit.

There was silence for a full minute, so far as Leon could guess. Neither Arthur nor Merlin seemed inclined to look at each other, both sitting knees up and looking at the grass, and he was fairly certain that none of the knights were even daring to breathe. This felt like such a private moment between the two of them, but if any of them were to move and demonstrate any sense of propriety, it felt as though the moment would break and it would all fall to hell before any of them knew how to save themselves.

Besides, if Leon knew his comrades at all, they were just as curious as he was.

Finally, Merlin moved. Without looking up from the ground, he handed the water skein over to Arthur, who took it. Arthur took a long swallow, and Leon wondered for a moment if there was something other than water in the skein. Whatever it was, Arthur seemed to appreciate Merlin's passage, although Leon could not have guessed whether it was for the symbolism or hydration.

The king placed a hand on Merlin's shoulder. Strangely, it looked as though Arthur's was the hand now shaking.

Then, at last, Merlin spoke. His voice was thick and low and unsteady, his breathing more or less regular, if still somewhat hitched and he inhaled deeply to deliver what Leon assumed was going to be a lengthy speech of some sort. Leon wasn't sure what he could possibly have to say. But Merlin turned his head very slightly toward Arthur and, with a voice so quiet and somehow calm despite the wavers, he spoke to his king.

"I was born with it," said Merlin.

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**Thank you for reading! It wasn't until I reread it that I realized how grim it was, but oh well! **

**For any who think that this was somewhat similar to a certain portion of "What Happened Before," I promise that that wasn't the intention. **

**As always, reviews are absolutely appreciated! **

**The long delay was because I wasn't sure how some of my scenarios would come across as written, so I had to overcome a few uncertainties. **


	8. Scenario VII

**Disclaimer: _Merlin_ is not mine. **

He'd been frightened.

Objectively, he knew that there was no reason to fear. He'd been chosen by the elders because there was no doubt that he had the power to escape, should escape prove necessary. Of course, the elders had more power than he did, but they lacked his strong legs and keen eyes. They said that he would be alright, and he believed them. Besides, he was a Druid. Objectivity was all but frowned upon. Nature did not follow a set path; it flowed.

Anyway, the elders—the few who remained—had assured him that there was no cause for dread. The truth had come to light, they said. He who had been foretold had revealed his identity to the men around him. Einion had been uncertain; there had been no changes. His people were hunted just as they had been since the day in which Uther Pendragon turned upon them. But the elders said that he who had been foretold was working to restore their safety from within. Even in nature, no change as important as this could happen in an instant. He stayed where he was and as he was for _their_ sake, the elders said. Einion would be safe.

Still, he'd been frightened.

But there were larger concerns. Einion knew this, and he approved of his mission with all of his heart. Even if he did not have the power to save himself, he was one of the dwindling number of the healthy within his small tribe. The disease—whatever it was—was ripping through their numbers. Within two days, half of them had died, and the majority of those who remained lacked the stamina and health to give proper burial rites. The very young and very old had been sent away, save for the elders, but Einion knew that their exile was nearly as dangerous as the pestilence. If they were set upon by the men in red capes, the very young and very old were unlikely to flee with any success. It was an imperfect solution, but no one knew what else to do. Of the six elders, only three remained, and even they could not recall an illness such as this that none of their arts could resolve. They lacked the power, they said, and there was only one who had what it would take to rid them of this terrible disease. He who had been foretold could save them. So Einion had been sent in search of this man.

As luck had it, this man had already been in the forest, traveling with a band of the men in red capes. It seemed a rather promising development; surely fate was on Einion's side. He was going to succeed, and his people—his _family—_would be saved. He just had to get close enough to speak with this man. He had to do it without doing anything that could have been perceived as aggressive. The man may have come out with his secret as the elders had said, but Einion's senses told him that the men of Camelot would not be friendly to him if he was discovered skulking about. It wasn't as though he could have disguised himself; his face bore tattoos of a Druid, and even his hood would not have been enough to conceal them. If Einion's could just reach the man of the prophecies before running into anyone else, it would all be okay…

As it happened, Einion had been captured shortly after his discovery of the camp of the men of Camelot. He'd been grabbed from behind, a rag forced into his mouth and a rough bag over his head before he'd had time to register the snapping of the twig behind him. Einion had nearly freed himself then out of sheer surprise, but he caught himself in time. He remembered what the elders told all of them. Attacking was no way to give a message of peace. Even self-defense could be easily misconstrued by those loyal to a Pendragon. Best to remain harmless until there was no other choice.

So Einion had allowed himself to be dragged away, trying not to choke on whatever was in his mouth and trying not to fall as he was forced along. He was blind and mute and all but deaf with the thick bag over him. But he was unhurt, dignity aside. This might even be a good thing, he thought. He was surely being taken to the king, and if he was to stand before the king, he was surely to be before the man that he had come to see. From what Einion understood, they were rarely far apart. Even after the truth had come out, as the elders had insisted.

After a few minutes, his captors stopped moving. The abruptness took Einion by surprise, and he nearly fell forward with the cessation. He wouldn't even have been able to brace himself from the impact; the men had managed to bind his hands behind his back at some point as he had stumbled about. He was surprised that he hadn't noticed, but he supposed that he must have been too busy trying not to fall on his face to pay much mind to what his wrists were doing. Although, he reasoned, his face would probably have been relatively unscathed. The bag would have at least spared him any scrapes. He just had to remember to think positively of his situation. He had to keep calm.

So he was glad that they stopped moving. They let go of him entirely, but he couldn't interpret it as a sign of good faith, no matter how positively he looked upon it. Blind as he was, he could still sense them hovering around him. The heavy breathing and shifting of undergrowth was enough to tell him _that._ He then realized that he could hear much better than he could when originally overtaken. He supposed that his merely muffled ears were compensating for his utter blindness. Or maybe his magic was helping. He wasn't particularly bothered about the reason; his nerves—and urge to blast his way free—were more than a bit soothed by the recovered sensation. He could _hear._

Well, he could _sort_ of hear. He was sure that there was speaking. It must have been in whispers; as much as Einion could discern the speech patterns—the rising and falling of syllables that could not occur in nature—the words were still too soft for him to understand through his bag. It was not until a new person crashed his or her way into the scene that Einion could interpret some of what was happening. Apparently, this person lacked the inclination to whisper that the rest of the men possessed. Perhaps he was not a knight.

"Who is he?" asked the new voice, sounding sleepy and uninterested. Despite his relief at hearirng another voice clearly, Einion was almost insulted. If a prisoner had been dragged into a _Druid_ camp after the sun had gone down, there would have been at least a _bit_ of wonderment.

"I don't _know,"_ said another voice, sounding was overcome by uncertainty; he hadn't been able to hear this man before, but the timbre and tone sounded familiar. He could only guess that this man had already been present and had merely raised his voice to answer the new arrival. _"_There happens to be a _bag_ on his head."

"I can see that," said the first, apparently not taking his cue from the majority of the men and lowering his voice. "Why is there a bag on his head?"

"He was sneaking on the encampment," replied the second, still sounding annoyed. There was a hint of authority in his voice, and Einion found himself wondering why he was bothering to answer the other man at all. He wasn't being particularly _polite._ But then, there was also a hint of relief. What was going on? "We think that he might be a sorcerer."

"Why?" asked the rude man. "Maybe he was curious. You sneak up on things all the time, and you're sure as hell not a sorcerer."

"I am the king of Camelot," said the other. "I can sneak up on whatever I want. Would you shut up?"

Well, Einion thought, that was one question answered. The annoyed voice belonged to the king. Einion tried with all of his might to be pleased that his plan was going more or less as intended, but something in him kept him from rejoicing at the voice of the king. A shudder of revulsion ran down his spine before he could stop it. Einion knew that his people were meant to be of peace, but this man…Einion meant the king no harm, of course. But as he stood, blind and mute and nearly deaf upon the blanketed orders of this man, he could not conjure the vision that the other natives of Camelot seemed to see. He'd never actually _seen_ the king, of course, but he'd been told enough that he'd be able to recognize him. He was said to be broad and handsome, golden of hair and blue of eyes. Even his voice wasn't unpleasant. But it made Einion's skin crawl. There was a murderer behind the mask, king or no king.

Einion shook his head. This was not the time for him to be reflecting on the wrongs of the king. He had a job to do and, if the king was in attendance, the man that Einion had come to see could not be far away. Despite the stated fact that he had revealed his magic to the king—all sources seemed to indicate that the two had become friends—in what must have been seen as something of a betrayal, the elders assured Einion that the man would still be by Arthur's side. Einion had been surprised, but he did not protest. Desperate as their situation was, the elders certainly wouldn't _lie_ about the situation just to persuade Einion to journey to their encampment, would they?

Would they?

"Where's my sword?" the king yelled, and Einion jumped at the sudden noise. He then felt the tip of a sword touch at his back, and a strange mixture of shame and resentment washed over him. He knew that it was essential that he remain still and give no impression of anything that could indicate aggression, but was it _really_ necessary to poke him with a weapon every time he moved a few inches? He was bound and silenced and they didn't even _know_ for sure that he was a sorcerer. What on earth did they think that he could do? Still, he steadied himself as best he could on the uneven ground and without the equilibrium granted by proper senses. After all, if he happened to trip _backwards,_ he was more likely to skewer himself than was with deliberation any of the king's men.

"I gave it to you," the rude man called back. He sounded farther away this time, so Einion supposed that the volume was more justified this time.

"This is _your_ sword," replied the king, and Einion had to wonder from the tone whether the rude man was not also rather…unintelligent. "You already had it on you. Although why we gave a sword to _you_ is beyond me…"

Einion inhaled deeply, stifling the twinge of annoyance. What right did the king have to be so short with a man who lacked proper wits? Especially in the middle of the night? Vaguely, Einion wondered why he was so indignant on this man's behalf. After all, if he was fetching swords for the king, he was probably just as uncomfortable with magic as the rest of the king's entourage, save for he who Einion sought.

"It's the middle of the night," protested the fool. "Why does it matter whose sword it is? It's not like it won't _work_…"

"Get me my sword," the king ordered.

"Sure. Of course. It's not like I fell off my horse and down a gigantic hill this morning. I would be _happy_ to go traipsing across this damn camp to find another sword for you to use, sire."

Einion wondered why the king was tolerating such address. He _was_ a king.

"You know, any self-respecting citizen of Camelot would be _honored_ to have your position."

There was a thump from the direction of the rude man's voice, as though he had dropped something heavy to the forest floor. "I'm not a citizen of Camelot. Why do you always forget that? And any self-respecting person _anywhere_ would have left your service by now."

"So you're not self-respecting?"

There was a long pause. "I like living in a castle."

"Would you just go and get me my—"

"I'm _going!"_

Bizarrely, Einion found himself smiling around his gag in what was a terribly uncomfortable movement. He couldn't help it; if he hadn't heard for sure that the rude voice was that of a man, he might have thought it as belonging to a wife rather than an underling. Then he choked on the gag, and the smile dropped as swiftly as the resentment returned. Why did they have to be _together?_ And if only Einion hadn't gotten caught…surely he could have sensed the powers of who had been foretold and approached him without waking the king and his men. Perhaps the elders had overestimated…or perhaps they had…

Einion shook his head under the bag. He couldn't start questioning the elders. Not now. If they had lied, they had lied. Einion couldn't really blame them, and it was not as though he could do anything about it at that moment. Any conflicted feelings could be dealt with once he brought the man who could heal them back to his people and all was well again. Just then, he had a job.

He felt the tip of the sword draw away from his back, and he allowed himself to relax a bit. He wanted to keep his strength for the proper gestures of respect when the man made his appearance. So what if the king thought his posture sloppy? Einion hadn't come to make any impression on the king. Beneficial as might have been the king's good opinion, no good opinions would suffice to save his fellow Druids from their plague. Einion needed _him…_

"You," said the king's voice, clearly addressing Einion. "Why have you come here?"

Einion made a sort of exclamation through the rag in his mouth. He didn't bother trying to properly speak; he was fairly certain that he would choke if he attempted to actually form a sentence. Surely this hinting would suffice…

"For heaven's sake," said the king, sounding exasperated again. "Percival, cut him loose."

An instant later, Einion's hands were free. Suddenly not caring whether they would interpret the movement as a threat, he snatched the rag out of his mouth, carefully leaving the bag intact. He could deal with having his vision obscured, but he didn't think that he could manage much longer with the gag. He dropped the rag to the ground and waited.

There was a long pause.

"_And_ the bag, Percival," said the king's voice. "It doesn't matter if he sees this patch of forest."

Einion tried not to wonder if the king was speaking thusly because there was no way to distinguish one section of forest from another by moonlight or whether it didn't matter if Einion saw his surroundings because he was not meant to survive the encounter. He could escape easily enough, of course, but he sincerely wished that he would not be forced to do so. Wondering didn't matter. He had to focus on what was happening before him, not what might happen.

Besides, he wasn't going to protest the removal of the bag. Blindness aside, the fabric was not particularly aromatic. Einion didn't want to think about what it might be used for when not being forced over the faces of passing wanderers. The men of Camelot _did_ have a lot of horses…

The bag was then whipped off of his head, and Einion found himself blinking rather rapidly. Even the pale moonlight was painful after the darkness. Then, after his eyes adjusted, he looked around, trying to take in the scene before the uncomfortable questions began.

He was surrounded by at least a dozen men in red capes. One of the largest stood behind him, no doubt ready to seize and restrain him if he made any sudden movements toward the king, who stood about ten feet in front of Einion, flanked by two shorter knights. Bizarrely, Einion wondered if the king had deliberately chosen the men who would stand on either side of him to be shorter than himself. From what he had heard, it seemed a rather Arthurian decision.

In the shadows far behind the king, Einion could see a man fumbling about the camp. The one sent for the sword, he realized. Einion searched as best he could for the man for whom he had come, but in vain. His attention was rather preoccupied by the dozen armed men who surrounded him. Besides, Einion had come to seek a man who was not a knight of Camelot. Why should he be amongst them as they faced an invader? He probably knew his place. Better than ever, Einion mused, now that he had confessed his magic and the king knew.

Or so the elders said.

Finally, Einion focused once more on the king, wondering why no one was questioning him. He wasn't anxious for it to begin; rarely having occasion to do so, Einion knew that he was a terrible liar. And then, he wasn't even entirely sure that he _should_ lie. If he was discovered, he would certainly not be endeared to the king by instinctive deception. Recent revelations aside, he had not altered any laws against magic. Besides, would Einion's target be any more pleased to help a man who had come into their camp, lying for his own aims? Perhaps honesty was best. He hoped so. Lying was so…undignified.

So he looked at the king and waited.

The king just stared at him, his eyes running over Einion's face for nearly a minute before Einion realized. The tattoos. When his face was obscured—either by darkness when he'd been captured or by the bag when he'd been marched to the camp—they'd known him only as an invader to their camp. Innocent or guilty of any subterfuge, he'd just been a man. But now…

"You're a Druid," said the king.

"Yes," said Einion, glad that the tattoos had given him away. Lying about his allegiance would have been more than foolish. Proof was very persuasive when it came to honesty, he thought to himself.

"You have magic," said the king, a hint of sadness behind the accusation in his voice.

Einion winced slightly. He always disliked it when outsiders said that people "had" or didn't have magic. Magic was not something that could be possessed. Magic was a part of everything and everyone, and the chosen few who could channel it were the "sorcerers." Magic was greater than them all, a part of nature, older and more enduring than any man, even one immortal. No one _had_ magic. Magic _was_, and men were fleeting.

Einion didn't think that this was the time to make the argument.

"I am a sorcerer, as you would say," he hedged.

"Why are you here?" the king asked sharply. He didn't move, but the knights at his sides dropped their hands to the hilts of their swords at his tone. Animosity aside, Einion had to admit that the king _had_ trained his men well. "You mean to do us harm?"

"No," said Einion earnestly, taking a step forward, despite himself. More swords were drawn, but he found that he couldn't help it. He was here to beg help for his people, not for his own safety. And he wanted to convey his sincerity. "Not at all."

"Then why have you come?" asked the king. "You must have known that you'd face execution if caught."

"Even still?" asked Einion, somewhat confused. The king was more open to this now. They had _told_ him so. The king wouldn't have him killed unless Einion gave reason. The king was supposed to have seen the truth because of his friend. Or maybe the seers had mistaken the timing...oh, he hoped not.

The king's brow furrowed, and Einion hastened to continue. He thought that the king might remain friendlier to an admission of why he had come rather than a discussion about the pros and cons of executing the invading Druid. "I come seeking help."

"With what?" asked the king, and a bit of relief trickled over Einion. The king had not demanded to know why Einion would seek the help of a Pendragon or called him a fool for doing so. No matter what choice the king made, Einion supposed that it said something that he was willing to hear him out.

"My people," began Einion. He heard the desperation leaking into his voice and, thinking that the emotion might be somewhat persuasive, if rather pitiable, he made no effort to temper himself. "My…tribe, I suppose. A sickness ravages us. We have lost half of our numbers. Perhaps more during my journey here. Almost certainly more. The elders were made aware that your encampment was in the area, and I was sent to beg assistance. We are simple folk to be asking anything of such a man, but there is no one else."

The king bit his lip and looked down. He didn't speak for a few moments. When he looked back up, his face was thoughtful. Unyielding, but thoughtful. That was better than nothing, Einion supposed.

"I am sorry,..?" he began, then paused and raised his eyebrows at the Druid. Belatedly, Einion realized that the king wanted to know his name.

"Einion," he answered, feeling strange.

"Einion," continued the king. "I am sorry, but I do not have a means to provide the help that you seek. I carry no medication and bring no physician. There is a man with some small amount of training, but not for something like this. I am truly sorry for what is happening to you, but I cannot help."

Einion frowned, the confusion returning. The king was misunderstanding. Was he doing it on purpose? Testing Einion, to see what informatioin he possessed? He _was_ being surprisingly compassionate. "I do not seek _your_ help…sire," said Einion, including the title as a sign of gratitude. "I do not seek medication or your physician."

An odd expression settled on the king's face. He looked almost…fearful. Unsettled.

"Then what do you seek?"

Einion wasn't sure how to answer.

The king cleared his throat and took a step toward the Druid, looking at him fiercely before amending, "Or who?"

Then, before Einion could figure out a way to honestly answer without making either himself or the king sound like a fool for the misunderstanding, a figure stumbled through the flanking knights, stopping at the king's side. He held a rather ornate sword and, as he came to a stop, he stuck the point of the sword into the ground to steady himself. He looked as though he had…well, as though he had fallen off of a horse and down a large hill, then woken from sleep and not permitted to so much as flatten his frowzy hair before rising to duty, the dark clumps sticking out at strange angles.

And Einion _knew. _He inhaled sharply at the sight and fell to a knee immediately. His body was cast into shadows and discomfort, but he was unaware of any pain. He'd thought that he was prepared for this, but _now…_

There was a momentary pause before the king spoke again, sounding bewildered.

"…You may rise."

Einion didn't move. He couldn't do the man who he had sought the disrespect of obeying another man's orders right in front of him, even if it _was_ the king of Camelot. Einion may have been born in his kingdom, but he was not raised to follow a Pendragon.

"What's going on?" came a poorly whispered voice, and Einion saw out of the corner of his eye as a gloved hand reached to its right side and snatched the sword from the man—_this_ man!—who had borne it.

"I'm not sure," said the king, not nearly as quietly as Einion was sure that he intended. "Maybe it's a belated show of respect."

"Maybe he can't stand, Arthur," said the man, and Einion shivered. This was truly happening.

The king seemed to consider for a moment. "Einion, are you injured?"

Einion couldn't answer.

The king elbowed the man at his side. "Go help him up."

With a heaved sigh that Einion could hear, even nearly eight feet away, the man strode forward and gently helped Einion to his feet. As though unsure of Einion's stamina, the man maintained his grip on Einion's upper arms, holding him steady as the moonlight fell upon his upright form. The man, his expression kind, looked Einion in the eye and opened his mouth to speak. Then, he seemed to notice the tattoos on Einion's face. The man's mouth snapped shut and he released Einion. An expression of dread settled on his face. But he did not break Einion's gaze.

Einion's breath caught in his throat. So few of his kind had actually _met_ this man. They all knew the stories, of course, but so few had ever sensed his presence, recognized him without knowing him, _seen_ him with their own eyes…Even most of the seers only knew him through visions…

The man was breathing shallowly. The king apparently noticed and walked forward. He gripped him by the shoulder and looked at him with a surprising amount of concern. "Alright there, Merlin?"

Somehow, the king's words brought Einion back to his senses, and he realized with a twinge of horror that he had been behaving abominably. He had just been _standing_ there and _gaping_ like a child. The man hadn't even realized that the bow had been intended for him rather than for the king. He had clearly recognized the tattoos as Druidic, and now Einion was treating him like he was just any normal person. But he hadn't been able to help himself. From the moment that this man—the man who had been foretold—had seen who Einion was, a sense of relief had washed over him. The man understood, surely, and Einion had relaxed for the first time since the first of his people had taken ill. It would all be alright now.

"My lord," said Einion, positioning his body so that it faced only the man whose aid he had sought. Apparently taking their cue from Einion and understanding the due respect—if rather belatedly—to this man, the knights of Camelot looked in the same direction at the Druid. Their expressions were more bewildered than the king's had been—lacking the fear and dread that Einion had not been able to understand—but then, _this_ man had only recently come forward as a sorcerer, if the elders were to be believed. The men of Camelot were probably still unaccustomed to the change in his status. After all, they all seemed determined to carry on addressing him by his common name and previous job. But whatever reason, every eye in the cave was suddenly turned upon Einion.

"My people beg of your help," Einion said, his eyes focused only on the man who would save them all, his voice low and respectful.

There was utter silence for a very long moment. Then, in a nearly simultaneous movement that might have been funny in a less tense situation, the head of every man in the encampment turned to follow Einion's gaze. As one, they looked upon the man who had been foretold. The king had an expression that was an odd combination of fear and anxiety. He stepped away, releasing the concerned grip on his servant's shoulder.

"Merlin?" said the king, his voice very small for so mighty a man.

"Oh, hell," said Emrys.

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**So, this was much better in my head, but I wrote it, so I figured that I might as well post it. Thank you for reading! :) Reviews are always appreciated. :)**


	9. Scenario VIII

**Disclaimer: _Merlin_ is not mine.**

They were unconscious.

In a way, it was an infinitely satisfying vision. Her two nemeses, both of whom had thwarted her time and time again, were slumped against each other, unconscious and bloody on the dirty floor of an abandoned castle, useless even as the battle raged just outside of their reach. Their friends were dying—horribly, more likely than not—and _they_ were trapped within a magical barrier that even _she_, who had cast it, would have to expend more than a bit of energy removing. They were trapped, and death raged around them. It was a devastating predicament. So that was, in a way, very satisfying.

In another way, it would have been infinitely _more_ satisfying if they were actually awake to realize how devastating was their predicament. As it was, they almost looked peaceful. They probably weren't even _cold,_ she thought grouchily. They were all but snuggling.

Of course, that was partly her fault. Merlin had stumbled into the chamber, supporting the already unconscious Arthur, no doubt dragging the king away from the fight to spare him the fate that awaited the rest of the men of Camelot. Merlin _had_ always had a rather narrow view when it came to prioritizing. And Arthur always seemed to be at the top of his list. So he had bumbled his way in and had just managed to swing the door shut without dropping his charge when he looked over his shoulder and saw Morgana, who was surprised at the unexpectedly fortuitous intrusion but far more prepared than the errant servant for a confrontation. She had _her_ spell ready long before he could have come up with anything other than a mild insult. In fact, he hadn't even been able to finish swearing before she raised a hand and flung him back, knocking him out and sending the two men up against the door where they now slumped together in a pathetic heap of extinguished greatness.

She smiled at the thought. A pathetic heap of extinguished greatness…if that wasn't poetically fitting of her, she didn't know what could be.

She'd considered waking one or both of them, just to hasten the thing along. She'd been waiting so long for this…how could she wait any longer, when they were just _there,_ begging to be killed? But then, she'd waited so long for this…surely she could wait a bit longer. After all, if she healed them enough to wake them up, she might accidentally heal them enough that they might regain strength enough to cause her a bit of trouble before she struck the final blow. Arthur wouldn't have been particularly worrying; no commonplace _weapon_ could stop her. She'd taken his arms anyway. Merlin, on the other hand, was something of a different story, but from the way that his head was bleeding, she couldn't imagine that he'd be up for any particularly epic battles. She wasn't even sure that she could imagine him standing up without leaning on something for support. She could only hope that he would actually wake up on his own without doing something distinctly anticlimactic like dying in his sleep before she had a chance to hold him accountable for the wrongs he'd done her.

So she sat on her dilapidated throne and began to wait. To wait, and to watch.

After about a quarter of an hour, Merlin began to stir. She was slightly surprised; although Arthur had already been wounded and unconscious when Merlin had brought him into the room, he almost certainly hadn't been particularly hurt by the fling into the wall. Merlin had taken the brunt of that force and had all but provided cushioning for the king. She'd thought Arthur more likely to wake before Merlin. Despite her confidence, uneasiness twinged at her. Could Merlin be healing himself…unnaturally? Even unconscious? That would not have been a good sign. It would perhaps not be unexpected, if the stories that she'd discounted were actually true. And a speedy wakening would surely not be enough to render him formidable in his state. But it was still relatively disquieting.

No matter. She could reflect on and laugh at her foolish discomfort later, when it was finished. Merlin's eyes were fluttering, and there were things to be done. She stood and tensed.

After a few moments, Merlin's eyes stayed properly open and, from the way that he immediately covered them with a limp and scraped bloody palm, dilated in the light that shone halfheartedly through the broken windows of the sealed throne room. When he lowered his hand, he seemed to come to his senses and pushed himself up onto his elbows, still on his back. Morgana readied herself.

Merlin didn't so much as glance in her direction. Perhaps feeling Arthur at his side, or perhaps just perpetually obsessed with looking for the kind at all times, Merlin glanced to his right and saw Arthur lying flat on his back on the floor, motionless save for the steady rise and fall of his chest. Clambering painfully to his knees, he knelt over Arthur and placed a hand on the king's torso, just below his collarbone. She wasn't entirely sure what he was doing, although he _had_ been living with Gaius for the better part of a decade. He was bound to have picked up on a few methods of medicine. Perhaps this was something that he'd learned from the old physician. Gaius always had seemed better at diagnosing than actually treating.

After a minute or so, he apparently satisfied himself that Arthur was not on the verge of death. Leaning back on his heels and looking exhausted, he wiped at his brow with the back of a hand. Judging by his unconcerned countenance, Morgana thought that maybe he believed himself sweating rather than bleeding. From the way that he glanced at his hand and then nearly fell over when he saw that the wetness happened to be red, he'd indeed been too preoccupied by Arthur's injuries to take much notice of his own. That was good, she thought. He would begin to put it together. He hadn't been injured when he'd entered the room; he'd figure it out.

Apparently, he'd figure it out more quickly than she'd've imagined of him. After a moment, he whipped around as quickly as he could on his knees and, from the look of him, on death's door. His eyes locked on Morgana, who smiled.

Merlin groaned, and her smile faltered for a moment. It was not a groan of pain or terror or anything equally appropriate. He sounded…annoyed.

"Oh, come on," he muttered. "Really?"

No, that was definitely not terror. He must have hit his head harder awfully hard, she told herself. Otherwise, he'd be wetting himself at his dire predicament.

"Hello, Morgana," he said tiredly, and began to try to stand. She saw him reach over Arthur and wondered if he was going to try to rouse the king. Merlin didn't know, she remembered…but Merlin wasn't touching Arthur. Not really. He was reaching for Arthur's scabbard. Finding it empty, he groaned again.

This seemed like the ideal opening for the revelations to begin, she decided.

"Hello, _Emrys,"_ she said impressively, and crossed her arms, waiting. She was somehow already pleased with her upper hand, and the corners of her mouth twitched. Besides, when it came to Merlin's true identity, she very much preferred thinking of her upper hand than the fact that it had taken her so _long_ to realize who he was. It was practically by accident that she had figured it out as it was. She'd just never thought to connect the two of them. The all-powerful Emrys and the idiot _Merlin_ were not a pair of people who often were subjects in the same sentence for her. But then she'd begun listing people who annoyed her and Merlin and Emrys had by chance followed one another in the list and then it began to fall together. She'd laughed at the thought at first, wondering if perhaps she was more sleep-deprived than she'd believed. Then she'd thought about it. There _were_ an awful lot of coincidences that surrounded Merlin and his ridiculously unlikely survival. The more that she considered, the coincidences didn't seem quite so…coincidental.

Of course, she then spent the better part of an evening berating herself for being a fool. Merlin was _right _there. She'd had him in her clutches so many times. He'd always been right there at Arthur's side, and _both_ of them had survived on so many occasions when they should have died. They had achieved so much more than should have been possible for a boy royal and his bumbling servant. Sheer luck could only take a pair so far. Of _course_ one of them was a sorcerer, and it sure as hell wasn't going to be Arthur. But then there was the peasant who had stumbled into Camelot and weaseled his way into the royal household and then everything in Camelot had seemed to go differently thereafter. One boy, one _servant,_ shouldn't have had so much of an influence. He'd probably enchanted Arthur. Maybe even Uther. And there were so many instances…yes, she felt foolish and Merlin was Emrys and it was all falling into place.

So, she said, "Hello, Emrys," and waited for him to tremble.

Unfortunately, he just waved a halfhearted hand in her direction, as though he was merely acknowledging the fact that she had spoken and that he had heard her. He was struggling to his feet, wobbling so much that he had to reach out a hand against the wall to steady himself. The blood that he'd wiped from his brow was smeared upon the stone, and when she saw the image of a single bloody handprint, she found herself shuddering.

Finally, he stood up. He was still rather hunched and, as he shuffled forward half a dozen feet closer to her, he had to lean heavily against a pillar to keep from sliding down again. When he looked up, she saw that he was remarkably pale, the whiteness of his skin offset by the darkness of his hair and the almost unnatural red brightness of the blood. The grimness somehow made his eyes look eerily blue. He looked like a corpse with his limbs strung up from the ceiling like a puppet with a particularly lazy puppeteer. In his white hand, he clutched a small dagger. From the way that it glinted even in the pale light of the throne room, she knew that it was too fine to have belonged to Merlin. Arthur must have had the knife concealed on his body somewhere where she had missed it when she had relieved him of his weapons. Merlin _dressed_ the king; of course he knew of his hidden weapons. But no matter. It was a tiny dagger in the hand of a man resembling death only slightly warmed over. She was a high priestess. Emrys or no, it was a laughably pathetic sight.

He met her eyes and opened his mouth.

"Morgana, what have you done to…" he trailed off, a bit of color returning to his face as he looked at her and considered. A hint of panic crossed his face. She waited. "What did you call me?" he asked, his voice shaking in a very pleasing manner. He glanced back at Arthur in what she assumed was a check to see that he was indeed still unconscious.

"Did you not hear me?" she asked sweetly, utterly enjoying his floundering. That is, she utterly enjoyed his floundering until she saw as he glared at her with an intensity that made her want to take a few steps backward. And perhaps hide behind the throne. But that wouldn't have done at all. She could enjoy his flounder un-utterly without actually _hiding_ from the man.

"Morgana," he said, an authority in his voice that seemed entirely unfitting. "What did you call me?"

"I called you by your true name," she said stiffly. As she watched, Merlin inhaled deeply, the breath shuddering as he took it in. He stared at her as though he couldn't have looked away if he had wanted to. Arthur might as well have disappeared from the room. "_Emrys."_

Merlin's face then went through such a rapid transition of emotions that Morgana forgot Arthur herself as she tried to register all of them. Dread and uncertainty and anger and denial, but there was first and foremost _fear_—perhaps fear and confusion—and he dropped his head at an uncomfortable-looking angle so that all she could properly see was his profile. For a moment, she thought that he had fallen back into a faint and would collapse at any instant, but as she looked more closely, she saw the whites of his eyes. He was breathing heavily, and she wondered if he was about to weep. It wouldn't have surprised her; to have kept a secret for so long and to have been discovered by his _enemy_ could not have been good for his opinion of himself. This was good. She wanted him to hate himself before he died.

Then, after a moment, Merlin raised his head again. But it was not self-loathing that she saw in him. The fear was vanished from his face, replaced by an emotion that she could not identify. It was certainly not one that she'd ever seen on Merlin's face. His eyes were terribly clear, and he stood up straight as though utterly uninjured, and she wondered with a pang if he had not been deliberately exaggerating his injuries. In an instant, he was upright, the only sign of the injuries that had left him unconscious and half dead being the scrapes and cuts that he'd taken from Morgana's blow. He touched the long cut on his brow and looked at his hand again. The bleeding had stopped. For some reason, he laughed at the sight and looked back at her eyes. There was a bizarre _joy_ in him, as though he'd been carrying some tremendous weight upon his back and the relief of tossing it aside was more overwhelming than was the danger before him.

"Why are you _laughing?"_ she asked incredulously. She'd played this moment out in her mind countless times, but it had never involved _laughter._ Not from him, anyway.

"Because you figured it out," said Merlin, still smiling. "And you let me wake up and _face_ you...that was not a wise move, Morgana."

"What does _that_ mean?" she asked sharply. She didn't need to feel like a fool.

"No one figures it out," he continued. "They always see me at it or I tell them or I show them, but you figured it out. You never even _see_ me, but you figured it out. You should have killed me, but well done on doing figuring it out on your own. _You…"_

"Of course I did," she said, feeling vaguely insulted. "No one else has?"

"No," said Merlin, laughing again, although the mirth sounded distinctly thicker than before. "Not Arthur, not Gwen, not a single one of those damn knights. But _you_ figured it out."

That took her by surprise. She'd assumed that Merlin had a few allies in Camelot who knew who he really was. Gaius, of course, but there had to be others, hadn't there? How else could he have managed to survive in secret for so long? Powerful Emrys might be, but the castle wasn't exactly a place known for its privacy. "You're saying that no one finds out?" she asked doubtfully.

"Well, some people find out," said Merlin, sobering himself abruptly. "But most don't live to tell the tale."

She laughed aloud at that. If Merlin thought that he was going to frighten her into letting him go by inventing stories of the might that he'd exercised over the years—the lengths that he had gone to to remain in Camelot without being exposed—then he was either a bigger fool than she'd ever imagined or he'd hit his head harder than she'd thought. Poor Merlin, she thought, smiling to herself. If this was the best that he could do to try to talk his way out of this—for he was certainly in no condition to put up much of a fight—she would almost feel guilty for crushing so unworthy of a foe. Almost. Perhaps he had so long eluded her, she reasoned, was because she'd built Emrys up in her head. She'd believed the stories too much. After all, Emrys was still just a man. So she laughed and looked at him and waited for him to break. Surely he would crack a smile at the ludicrousness of what he had tried to pull on her or blush at how unbelievable a story it was or roll his eyes that she'd even taken those few instants to consider what he had said. She waited him to give himself away.

He just looked at her and raised his eyebrows for a moment. More color was returning to his face…

"You're not serious," she said, trying to remain lofty and mocking. He couldn't be permitted to think that she was seriously considering believing him. Because she wouldn't do something so foolish, certainly. Of course not.

He shrugged. "Ask your friend Agravaine," he said, so nonchalantly that she would have rolled her eyes—as was often her inclination when she remembered _that_ lovestruck fool—if she did not see Merlin's face as he spoke. There was a cruelty there that was not often seen. She'd seen it once before, when he'd taunted her of his pride at thwarting all of her plans and killing Morgause and everything terrible that had happened to her over the years. Granted, she'd had him trussed up and was planning on using him as a vessel to murder Arthur, but there had been an edge of a remorseless ruthlessness in his words and in his face it became inconceivable that there was any falsehood.

And Morgana believed.

"Oh," she said. He raised his eyebrows at her again, a hint of a smile twitching at his lips.

Then, belatedly, Morgana realized what he was saying.

"Oh!"

"'Oh,' indeed, my lady," said Merlin, his voice as threatening as she'd ever heard it. But she could not help but realize that, threats and murderous admissions aside, he hadn't taken any steps—literal or vocal—to attack her. Even the dagger seemed to be barely in his grasp. Perhaps he was as injured as she'd first believed. Perhaps he was bluffing. But how could she trick him into admitting it? She'd have to be sneaky about it…

"You're bluffing," she accused.

Merlin shrugged. Then, his eyes glowed.

And Morgana fell.

She fell _hard._

Bizarrely, her first reaction was a sort of confused embarrassment. When _she_ attacked people, she liked to fling them all about, usually into whatever solid object was nearest and…most solid. But Merlin had just shoved her over. What was impressive about that? So what if she'd fallen so hard that the stones beneath her had cracked and she saw black for a moment and even her massive amounts of dirty hair hadn't done much to cushion the back of her head as it connected with the floor. But he'd just…_tripped_ her? The mighty Emrys, she thought dazedly.

Then, Merlin came into view. He was no longer laughing or even smiling. He looked downright grim, and she remembered the last time that Merlin had had her on the verge of death as she fought for life on the floor of a throne room. It had been the end of everything….

Her eyes glowed, and Merlin let out a sort of "Oof!" and flew out of her line of vision. He didn't fly with so much force as she would have liked, and she wasn't sure if this was because Merlin was actually using his magic and thusly kept her from injuring him as she had in the past or if it was because she had been weakened by Merlin's attack, unimpressive as it may have been. She didn't bother to hope. She'd felt it as she'd channeled her magic to throw him back. He wasn't dead. Unless he landed directly on his previous head wound, he probably wasn't even dazed. He'd probably just skidded backward a few feet. She didn't even bother hoping that she'd flung him into Arthur and broken her stupid brother's royal nose. She hadn't thrown him in that direction. In fact, she hadn't even remembered Arthur until just then, and she would have bet her powers that Merlin had forgotten him as well.

Merlin came back into her field of vision, and she forced herself to try to rise. She made it up to her knees and, knowing that she wasn't likely to make it any higher, summoned all of her strength to glare defiantly at her foe. She was pleased to see that he was at least disheveled from her retaliation and, although it was more likely due to the exertion than the attack, his head wound was trickling blood once more. She'd've liked to see it at least gushing, but now, as she felt what he could do and knew what she could not in her state, she supposed that she ought to take what she could get.

"You're more powerful than I thought," Merlin commented evenly. He circled her appraisingly a few times, and she was vaguely proud that he still deemed her something of a threat. Even as she knelt, trembling with the effort of remaining even in this so pathetic a position, he was being more careful that he had been previously. She was glad for that, now, at the end.

After a minute or so, he stopped circling and stood in front of where she knelt. Still standing, he placed a hand on top of her head and slid it gently to the side until it rested upon her cheek. She looked up at him, and still managed to be surprised, even after everything. She was several years his senior, but there was something so _old_ about him as he looked down at her with no pleasure at her weakened position that she almost wanted to apologize, because she understood. She finally understood why the Druids were so respectful when they spoke of him. She understood why he garnered allegiance from sorcerers who had never met him. She understood the fear and the hope and the dread and the respect. It was Merlin's bony body that stood over her, Merlin's blood that crusted on his wounds, Merlin's eyes that gazed down at her dispassionately, Merlin's hand that touched her cheek gently yet with far too much firmness to be misconstrued as affection. But when she looked up at him, she saw Emrys. And she nearly repented, although she could not say for what.

"I liked you better when you were old," she said, remembering her battle with the elderly man she'd believed his normal body, feeling strangely groggy as she struggled with the picture. "Your eyes were younger."

"I liked you better when you were good," said Merlin, shrugging. "I liked us both better when we were good."

His hand was growing warm.

"Arthur won't forgive you this," she said softly, leaning against his hand, simply for the meager steadiness that it might provide. Was she slurring? Surely she wasn't slurring. "He won't understand."

"For my magic?" asked Merlin, sounding as thought he'd been thinking the same thing. But she shook her head as best she could. She wondered for a moment how he planned to explain how any of this had happened to Arthur, but in an instant, forgot as Merlin repeated himself. "For my magic, Morgana?"

"For _me,"_ she whispered, fading. Her head ached so...

"Have you never heard the prophecies, Morgana?" asked Merlin. "Your destiny lies with me, not Arthur. And besides, contrary to his beliefs, not everything is always about him."

She almost laughed. He sounded as he had when he had come to Camelot. He sounded as she had when she had first had to get used to how he spoke to Arthur, how Arthur _let_ him speak without arresting him, how he had been so _normal_ and made the prince and the ward have to be just a little bit normal themselves. It might as well have been ten years ago.

"Just get on with it," she said, suddenly very tired. "Just kill me."

"I'm not going to _kill_ you, Morgana," said Merlin, actually barking out one very worn and very sad laugh. "Not _now,_ anyway. This isn't the time."

"Well, why not?" as asked, hearing her own petulance and nearly wincing at it. She was on the verge of passing out, and _now_ she was whining. She was whining about not being expediently killed, of all things..."Why not?"

"Your brother will want a word," said Merlin, and his hand grew very warm against her cheek. It was a strangely pleasant sensation, and her eyes grew wide for one long moment. The last thing that she saw before she slipped into unconsciousness was Arthur, the forgotten king. He was sitting, propped up against the stone wall with his legs splayed flatly in front of him. His eyes were open, and his face bloody and pale.

_Well, Merlin,_ she thought dimly. _It looks like he'll want a word with you too._

And then she didn't see anything at all.

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**Well, this was technically a reveal fic. Arthur **_**did**_** find out…and Merlin found out that Morgana had found out...yeah, it was just kind of a massive cheat. ****Still, I hope that it was interesting. I have fun writing Morgana, and I might also publish this one as a separate story.**

**Thank you for reading! Reviews are always incredibly appreciated. :) I go so much faster…**

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**ETA: I've decided to expand on this one. I felt kinda bad because this wasn't REALLY a reveal fic, so I'm gonna keep going to make it more complete...so continuations of Scenario VIII will be posted as "Black And White And Red All Over." Readers are always appreciated! :)**


	10. Scenario IX

**Disclaimer: _Merlin _is not mine. **

The king was dead.

It was a beautiful day outside. The sun shone out from a blue sky, bright enough to keep them aware of their surroundings but not so bright as to render them sun-blind. There was breeze enough that the standards flapped well enough to show the gold dragon emblazoned upon the red fabric, but not so windy that their crossbow bolts would have been blown astray. The temperature was pleasantly cool, warm enough to keep their sword fingers limber but not so hot that they would be quickly worn out by their exertions. Best of all, what sun shone and what wind blew all seemed to be in the direction of the band of marauders whom the men of Camelot had rode forth to defeat. What sun blindness there was, it would affect _them_. What wind resistance would waver the bolts, it would hinder them. The conditions were ideal for a decisive victory, and the men of Camelot rode forth optimistically. Even excitedly.

But there had been unfortunate discoveries. First, there were far more of the marauders than any of the scouts had reported. In fact, there were so many that they no longer resembled a _band_ of marauders so much as they did an army. Second, the marauders had been much closer than any of them had anticipated. They had reached the ruins of the castle in which the king had intended to camp for the night and managed to form ranks before his outriders even approached.

And worst of all, no matter how sizable was their host, no group of marauders could ever be deemed an actual army. Even as they outnumbered Arthur's knights, they gathered in no formation. There were groups of them spread here and there, hiding behind ruins and within what few rooms still stood, hiding behind _each other_, behind trees and bushes and not even all at the castle. There was no organization, no real strategy among the bandits. No leader to follow, no desire for parlay, no purpose beyond what was immediately in front of them, no purpose but to _win. _And there was no honor among marauders.

So the king was dead.

Distantly, Gwaine tried to rationalize. It was bound to happen sometime. Arthur had played the odds so many times…he had lived so many times when he should have perished…he'd survived wounds that ought to have killed him…he had the confidence of a man utterly skilled in battle but fond of denying the fact that he would be the immediate target of any man who recognized him. Arthur was a warrior king, and times of peace, loath as he was to admit it, frustrated him on a certain level. So Arthur would ride out to war and risk everything and escape certain death and ignore the fact that his luck could surely not hold out indefinitely and he would make it back alive.

But now, finally, the king was dead.

Gwaine had seen it with his own eyes and, now that he'd had a few minutes to distance himself, he thought that it wasn't fair. Arthur was the most skilled warrior that Gwaine had even witnessed in a fight, well-trained in the arts of battle that was due any knight raised for the job as well as possessed of impressive instincts. If he was going to die in battle, Arthur deserved an epic fight. But they had been nearly an hour into the fight, and they all had taken a battering. None of them had completely intact armor. So when a massive man swung a massive spiked mace at the king as he turned from one victim to face the next, taking Arthur by surprise, and hitting him square in the chest, he managed to connect in a broken seam of Arthur's chain mail.

Arthur had dropped like a sack of potatoes. He hadn't even had time to cry out.

Gwaine wasn't sure for how long he lived after the initial hit. The marauder, after he took a good look at the man that he had maced, was too surprised at discovering that it had been the enemy king to have properly braced himself for the three knights who launched themselves at him as soon as they saw Arthur fall. Gwaine was one of them and, as was his comrades, he seemed to find himself in something of a distinctly un-chivalrous frenzy of hacking at the man who had felled their king.

Then they had looked at the king and seen...and then battle turned immediately. The rest of the knights—mostly those trained nobility rather than the imported talent like Gwaine—turned back to the fight as it advanced. They saw that Gwaine stayed by his side.

Yes, Gwaine stayed. Someone had to. Arthur had been their commander and friend, and someone had to watch over him. His body would come to no harm.

Even as the battle raged, Gwaine stared at the fallen king. He gingerly moved aside the flaps of broken chain mail and looked at the wound. It wasn't even all that bloody. His chest just had a sort of nauseating caved-in portion, more or less where his heart would have been. Strangely, Gwaine thought of Arthur's manservant. Merlin would probably blame himself, he realized vaguely. Merlin was in charge of keeping Arthur's armor in order and, while this was not in any way Merlin's fault, Gwaine knew that the young man would blame himself.

If they could find him. Merlin had been separated from the main group from the very beginning, when they had first been set upon by a group of twenty or so of the scattered marauders. Gwaine wasn't particularly worried about him; Merlin had been amidst nearly a dozen knights, and Merlin was another who always seemed to escape near-death situations. Besides, he did not wear the guard of a knight of even anything with the crest of Camelot. If he was unhorsed, he could probably blend in well enough with the frenzied and un-uniformed bandits to escape certain harm. Merlin would surely be fine. But when he found out that the king had died and that he hadn't been by his side, even if there was no way that manservant Merlin could have done anything to prevent the randomness of the attack…Merlin was not going to react well.

In a way that Gwaine knew was very selfish, he was glad for Merlin's inevitable distress. They'd have to look after Merlin, who would no doubt be fairly frantic and end up trying to do something stupid like try to wake the king, even knowing that the knights had certainly _tried_ that. But the knights had gone into battle often enough to see when a man had died, _truly_ died, by the look of their eyes.

The lack of breathing was also a pretty good indicator.

But they would have to keep Merlin calm, and Gwaine considered Merlin his closest friend, even knowing that the rank was not mutual. Although, Gwaine thought morbidly, he might move up in the ranks now that the king had fallen. There was no pleasure in the thought. But Merlin would be Gwaine's charge in this so awful of a situation, and looking after Merlin would be a distraction...and then Gwaine wouldn't have to look at the king anymore.

Leon was holding himself together surprisingly well. The roar of rage and despair that he had let loose when he had seen Arthur, followed by a charge into battle, had made Gwaine certain that Leon was going to be as much trouble as Merlin. But Leon seemed to be thinking along the same lines as Gwaine, and Gwaine had not seen Leon stand still more for than a minute since the fall. He had taken charge of the army in Arthur's stead, a task that Gwaine did not envy him. After the battle had quieted and the stragglers were being finished throughout the ruins, some of the knights had moved Arthur into a circular inner chamber. It was the largest and most intact that they'd been able to find, with a single door leading in. There were only a few of them who had actually _seen_ Arthur's body. So far, his death was probably just rumored among most of the men. For some reason, Gwaine thought that this was probably a good thing. Those in the know would have to find a way to hold themselves together before they could hold together the majority of the surviving men, of which there were surely plenty. Surely.

Not that Gwaine had interacted with any of them since Arthur had fallen. Now, he stood on one side of the doorway, standing sentry over the dead king. The marauders were gone; there was no danger of his body being desecrated, and Gwaine certainly took no pleasure in the task that he had granted himself. But he couldn't leave Arthur all by himself, alone in this alien castle, on a cracked stone floor with nothing but a folded red cape as a pillow because they had nothing else for him. It was so unfair, and Gwaine would not leave him alone.

After a few minutes, Leon joined him. Gwaine had been surprised; Leon had been so determinedly keeping himself occupied that Gwaine had been sure that his fellow knight would not cease moving and managing until he passed out from sheer exhaustion. But Leon had known Arthur longer than any other knight. He'd known Arthur from childhood. His desire to stand over his king must have been even stronger than Gwaine's. Gwaine was glad that it was Leon who stood watch with him; as much as Percival was the quiet one of the company, Gwaine knew that Leon would keep the silence now. There was nothing to be said. He just stood on the other side of the doorway and, without acknowledging Gwaine beyond a cursory nod as he took his place, began watching over the king.

There didn't even seem to be any men in the long hallway that led from the courtyard in which most of the other knights were no doubt sitting and recuperating and trading rumors about what sort of injury the king had sustained this time. The silence was somehow simultaneously dreadful and appropriate. Arthur deserved some peace now, and if that meant leaving him in silence, then Gwaine could certainly respect that, even as fond as he was of chatter in awkward situations. Arthur had actually complained about that on several occasions, Gwaine remembered sadly. He hadn't taken the complaints seriously enough to actually stop the chatter; the king made the same complaints about his own manservant and, as _he_ hadn't been sacked after a decade of it, Gwaine had figured that he could get away with a bit of nonsense from time to time when—

There was a strangled cry that echoed down the long hallway, and Gwaine closed his eyes. It was happening.

He heard rapid footsteps—soft and pattering—as someone ran down the hallway, followed by the heavier footsteps of what Gwaine knew were the boots of a knight. Someone was giving chase. Gwaine was taken aback; surely no one would have thought to stop _him_ from approaching the king. Servant he may have been, but he had more access to the king than almost anyone else, save perhaps for the queen. And that was a very genuine "perhaps."

Then, Merlin appeared, and Gwaine almost wanted to avert his gaze. There was fear and denial and an almost dangerous determination that was terribly sad to behold. Merlin should have been here, Gwaine suddenly thought. Unlikelihood and foolishness to have Merlin with them as it may have been, Merlin should have been there…Merlin wasn't respectful enough to be standing back, sentry over the king. Merlin would have been right beside the king, crying or raging or even laughing at the ridiculousness of this eventuality actually coming to pass. Merlin should have been there. With a shake of his head, Gwaine gestured at the pursuing knight to leave them be, and the three were soon left alone.

Merlin didn't seem to be breathing. He just stared at the king, eyes very bright, swaying on his feet between Leon and Gwaine. Gwaine was fairly certain that Merlin was trembling, and he tensed, ready to grab hold of Merlin if he fell. He wouldn't have been surprised; he'd seen bigger men than Merlin pass out when they'd looked as he did now. And Gwaine would catch him before he hit the ground.

Or, Gwaine mused, catch him if he did something stupid like run forward toward the—

Suddenly, Gwaine's musings were interrupted as Merlin did something stupid and ran forward toward the king.

"Merlin!" Gwaine hissed, immediately chasing after him. He heard Leon heave an enormous sigh and begin to jog after the pair of them.

To Gwaine's immense relief, Merlin stopped and stood over Arthur's body. Gwaine wasn't sure if he could have handled Merlin shaking Arthur, pleading with him to wake, _ordering_ him to wake, insulting him to try to motivate him to get up and threaten him with the stocks or exile or execution. It _had_ worked in the past. But Merlin had seen more than his fair share of corpses, Gwaine remembered. Merlin might not have recognized death as the king had fallen, but he would know when he looked at the body.

Gwaine stopped and stood next to him, watching warily as Merlin began to breathe again. His breath came shallowly.

"This wasn't supposed to happen," said Merlin, his voice uneven. He turned to Gwaine and looked at him beseechingly. "This wasn't supposed to happen. Not like this."

Merlin's voice broke, and Gwaine frowned. He hadn't expected this either. Merlin sounded almost as though he was trying to convince Gwaine of the _improbability_ of the whole thing.

"I was supposed to be here," Merlin continued, either not noticing or not caring to pay heed to Gwaine's expression. "Even if I couldn't stop it, I was supposed to _be_ here."

"You couldn't have stopped it," said Leon softly, and Gwaine saw that his arms looked ready to reach out and snag Merlin. "He took a mace to the chest and—"

"That doesn't matter," said Merlin, a manic impatience in his voice. "You don't understand. It wasn't supposed to _happen_. Not here."

"I know," said Gwaine, trying to keep composure. This was more difficult than he'd imagined. Merlin was saying most of what Gwaine was thinking but not daring to say, although Gwaine admittedly didn't know what the hell Merlin was talking about with some of it. "It's terrible—"

"_No,"_ said Merlin emphatically, sounding almost annoyed with them. "You don't _understand. _This can't have happened. I know how it was supposed to happen because I've seen it somewhere else and I was going to be there and stop it and it wasn't even supposed to be _here,_ and certainly not by some random marauder. This is all wrong."

Gwaine didn't know what to say. He wished that the brightness in Merlin's eyes would do something helpful like spill over. He could have handled Merlin crying. He'd _expected_ Merlin crying. He hadn't expected Merlin's first conscious reaction to be trying to convince the two knights that Arthur's death was…improper, somehow. Merlin was supposed to be too inconsolable to be forming any conscious thoughts at all. He seemed almost…calm, although Gwaine saw that Merlin was trembling worse than ever, and his breath was growing shallower by the syllable. Gwaine exchanged a glance with Leon, who looked as bewildered as Gwaine felt.

"When did it happen?" asked Merlin abruptly, looking suddenly frightened and sounding strangely hopeful. "When did he die?"

Gwaine just stared at him, but Leon answered.

"Nearly half an hour ago, Merlin," the older knight said softly.

"Half an hour," Merlin repeated, and a strange mixture of emotions crossed his first. At first, he looked thoughtful, then rather sick. Finally, he looked down at the king and swallowed hard, a furious recklessness overcoming his expression. "Okay. I can do that."

Gwaine wasn't sure what he meant by that, but then he stopped trying to figure it out as Merlin placed his hands on his hips and looked in what looked like _consideration_ down at Arthur, as though Arthur was a particularly puzzling stain that he couldn't decide how to best remove from come clothing. He wobbled.

"Merlin," said Gwaine, very quietly, and he took Merlin by the arm and tried to pull him away. Merlin needed to mourn—probably more than any of them, save perhaps Sir Leon—but staring at Arthur's corpse wasn't going to do him any good. Hell, Arthur hadn't been dead for very long. His body hadn't even cooled or stiffened, and Gwaine was afraid that if Merlin touched him, he'd convince himself that the king was just sleeping. And that wouldn't have done at all. Gwaine tried to lead him away.

Merlin shook him off.

"Don't touch me, please," said Merlin absently and with odd courtesy. He began to circle the king, glaring at Arthur as though he could will him back to life. "Leave me be."

Gwaine winced and rubbed at his head.

"Merlin," said Leon, stepping up to join Gwaine. "Come on. Let him rest."

Merlin barked out a strange laugh at that. "No, I don't think that I will. Not yet. It's not time yet."

As Merlin circled toward them, Gwaine tried to take hold of him again, grabbing at his right hand. Leon, seeing Gwaine's movement, seized Merlin's other arm. Still, Merlin wriggled free. Gwaine supposed that Merlin was taking advantage of the fact that neither of the knights wanted to hurt him, especially now. Or do something that might lead Merlin to hurt himself. His breathing was now hitched as though he was somehow sobbing tearlessly, and Gwaine thought more than ever that he would pass out if he didn't calm down. Or maybe they should just knock him out, Gwaine considered briefly, before dismissing it as too convenient perhaps too callous for them. It would only be a delay, anyway. Hoping that some distance would settle Merlin, Gwaine took several steps back in the direction of the doorway and raised his hands in surrender. Leon took his cue from Gwaine and stood at his side.

Merlin paid them no mind and bent down over over the king. He closed his eyes and placed a hand over the king's heart, no doubt feeling the depression where the mace had connected. It looked as though this was just Merlin was confirming for himself that the king was actually dead, but the look on his face…he seemed…curious. Then, more determined than ever.

"Come on, Merlin," said Gwaine, suddenly afraid.

Merlin, still hunched over the king, turned to look at the knights, glaring at them with such anger and such sadness that Gwaine felt as though his own heart was breaking all over again. Yet there was something not entirely sad about Merlin's stance. The way that he hunched protectively over Arthur's body…Merlin looked like a predator standing over and prepared to defend his kill from scavengers. It was unsettling.

Leon took a step forward, his face wary. Gwaine copied him. If they had to drag him away from Arthur and shake some sense into him, he supposed that they would have to do it. Merlin wasn't the only one mourning here, Gwaine rationalized. They approached Merlin and the king.

Merlin looked up at them, and his eyes glowed golden.

Then, Gwaine thought about swearing, but he was too busy being thrown backward-Leon at his side, through the doorway and skidding down the stone hallway, sparks jumping from his armor as he slid-to choose an adequate obscenity. When they stopped, however, Leon obliged rather colorfully. As Gwaine pushed himself to his feet, Leon sat on his backside, scowling and looking for all the world like a sulking child before Gwaine reached a hand down to pull him up. This seemed to bring Leon to his senses, and he joined Gwaine to run back down the hallway toward the circular room where Merlin—_magical _Merlin, he supposed—was with the king. Merlin shouldn't have to be alone...

Gwaine was vaguely surprised that he was more concerned with Merlin's state of mind that he was about Merlin apparently being a sorcerer. _That_ was some interesting prioritizing.

In a moment, the two knights were back at the doorway through which Merlin had unceremoniously flung them with that brief glowing of his eyes. Gwaine wasn't entirely sure what they would do when they reached Merlin—especially considering that Leon was traditionally rather rigid about law and order. And law and order involved the punishment of magic. Gwaine only hoped that Leon had his wits about him properly to remember that this was _Merlin_ and who were they to blame anyone for losing their senses when learning of Arthur's death? Gwaine had reacted by holding silent vigil. Leon had reacted by keeping occupied. So what if Merlin reacted by hurling knights about with his mind? They all had their ways of coping.

Gwaine hoped that such reasoning would be acceptable to the rest of the knights. He didn't know whether Arthur had known that Merlin was capable of such things, and he couldn't be entirely sure that Arthur would leap to Merlin's immediate defense if he found out like this. But Arthur surely wouldn't let anyone _hurt_ Merlin.

But Arthur was dead and Gwaine was just one knight and an _outsider_ knight at that and what the hell was he doing thinking about this when he ought to be dragging the crazed servant away from the king? Gwaine sped his pace.

Unfortunately, he sped his pace at an extremely unlucky point, for it was just as he stepped beyond the threshold of the doorway, Leon half a step behind him, that he collided with some sort of invisible wall and fell backward, hard.

This time, he _did_ manage to swear.

Luckily for Leon, his face was spared the smack. Seeing Gwaine's bounce backward and probably recognizing what he had shouted, Leon had turned his head to look at his comrade. He'd been running too quickly to slow down properly, and while his momentum still led him to a collision with what looked like nothing, at least it wasn't head on. For him, anyway.

If Gwaine's nose was broken, Gwaine vowed, he was going to kill Merlin.

Leon, apparently more inclined to focus on the larger issues at hand, was first on his feet this time and yanked Gwaine to his feet. It was a mark of the seriousness of the matter that Leon's mouth didn't give so much as an amused twitch as Gwaine wiped blood from his face and started feeling at his nose for any damage.

Instead, Leon behaved like an adult and approached the wall that wasn't there, fingers outstretched in front of him. About a foot beyond the doorway, his fingers stopped.

"Huh," said Leon. Gwaine, abandoning perspective entirely, rolled his eyes at Leon's rather underwhelmed response and walked forward himself, reaching out to touch the wall. When he finally touched, he shivered. What a strange feeling! His fingers just…stopped. He closed his eyes and just felt. The surface was smooth and cool, as though made of glass. However, even the cleanest glass, he knew, could not be so clear that a pair of knights would collide with it. It was as though there was some invisible barrier separated himself and Leon from the king and Merlin.

There probably was, Gwaine realized. Magical. Sighing, he opened his eyes and looked beyond what wasn't there, the only sign that there was any barrier at all being the blood left from where Gwaine had made contact. A single bloody handprint seemed to float eerily in front of them. Gwaine forced himself to look away and focus.

Merlin was still hunched over the king, although utterly motionless. It was as though time had stopped within the crumbling chamber when Merlin had flung them back. In fact, were it not for the fact that he saw Merlin's chest rising and falling with the rapidity his breath, he might have thought that Merlin was so powerful a sorcerer that he had managed to stop the passage of time. But surely Merlin couldn't be all that powerful, not to have kept his secret for so long. The way that he'd been able to toss Gwaine and Leon about, and then create this invisible wall…surely they were just resultant of how high his emotions were running.

Then, Merlin moved. He placed one hand over Arthur's heart and the other on Arthur's brow. Gwaine saw Merlin close his eyes and take one very heavy breath. When he opened them again, his eyes glowed even more brightly golden than what they had seen before. Arthur's body jerked, his spine arching before falling back onto the ground.

Merlin's body shuddered.

Neither Leon nor Gwaine spoke. They didn't move. Gwaine wasn't even sure if either of them even breathed.

Merlin closed his eyes and took a very heavy breath. He opened his eyes.

His eyes glowed golden.

Arthur's body jerked, his spine arching before falling back onto the ground.

And Merlin's body shuddered.

Again.

Then, Merlin closed his eyes and took a very heavy breath. He opened his eyes.

His eyes glowed golden.

Arthur's body jerked, his spine arching before falling back to the ground.

And Merlin's body shuddered.

Again.

And again.

It happened, over and over again until Gwaine lost count, the same thing time after time. The only differences that Gwaine could see were in the way Merlin's body reacted after every time that he…magicked Arthur's corpse, or whatever it was that he was doing. The shudders turned to shakes, and the shakes to wobbles, and the wobbles to swaying. Gwaine wasn't even sure how Merlin was maintaining his hunch. The young man seemed entirely unaware of anything other than this routine or ritual or whatever it was that he kept repeating. The more that Merlin seemed to drain, the greater seemed to be the force that he was exerting on what had once been Arthur.

Leon was weeping. Gwaine probably was as well, if he had the awareness to even consider himself. It was so awful. What was Merlin _doing?_ Gwaine had deliberately had Arthur moved away into this chamber so that no damage would be done to his body, and now Merlin was abusing it. And _why?_ Had Arthur's death really unhinged him so much? If it hadn't been so dreadful, Gwaine would have joked that this was Merlin's way of getting back at Arthur for all of the unreasonable chores set him by the king. But this was no time for jokes. Gwaine felt as though he would never be able to joke again. This was so awful…

Merlin closed his eyes and took a very heavy breath. He opened his eyes.

His eyes glowed golden.

Arthur's body jerked, his spine arching before falling back to the ground.

Merlin's right leg gave out, and he fell to one knee.

Gwaine wished that he could look away. He began to weep as well. He brushed the tears away impatiently.

Merlin paid no mind to his fall. He closed his eyes and took a very heavy breath. He opened his eyes.

His eyes glowed golden.

Arthur's body jerked, his spine arching before falling back to the ground.

Merlin's nose began to bleed, and he swayed on his single remaining upright knee. For the first time, there was a pause in the ritual, and there was a blast of warmth as though the barrier went hot for an instant. Merlin was going to pass out. Gwaine was sure of it. Or maybe he'd put himself through too much. Maybe Merlin wasn't going to pass out, but he was going to...he wasn't. Merlin wouldn't die. He would pass out. Gwaine didn't know what the hell he was doing, but the toll was clearly great on his body…he would just do them all a favor and faint.

Then, Merlin shook his head and stiffened his hands, still on Arthur's head and heart. He closed his eyes and took one very heavy breath. Gwaine was certain that this would be the last time that Merlin would manage it.

Merlin's were closed for longer this time, the heavy breath heavier. But still, he opened his eyes.

His eyes glowed golden.

Arthur's body jerked, his spine arching before falling back to the ground.

Merlin wobbled, and the invisible barrier gave out.

Then, the king gave an almighty gasp. His eyes flew open, and his face contorted with pain as his emptied lungs refilled. Merlin's hands jumped back from the king as though he had suddenly burnt hot.

"What the hell?" Arthur croaked, barely managing to speak between coughs. He propped himself weakly up on his elbows, squinting into the light. "Oh, _ow," _he said, rubbing his chest, then looked questioningly at Merlin.

Merlin somehow staggered a few steps backward before falling gracelessly over his ankles until he sat on his backside on the dirty stones, staring at Arthur as though he'd never seen him before. He didn't blink.

"I can't believe that worked," Merlin breathed, sounding terribly afraid. His face gave a bit of a twitch, as though he wanted to smile at the fact that Arthur was actually _alive_ but uncertain about how it had come about. It did not seem a good sign that Merlin was uncertain about this. Still, Gwaine could not blame Merlin for the joy that was clearly beneath the fear. Arthur was _alive._

"What?" asked Arthur tiredly, his voice still scratchy as he sat all the way up, rubbing his chest. He didn't seem to notice where Gwaine and Leon stood, motionless in the doorway with mouths open wide. Gwaine, feeling aware for the first time in what felt like hours, realized that he was more frightened than he had ever been in his life.

"That shouldn't have worked," said Merlin, still staring at the king and looking utterly spooked. "That's wrong, that's too much...I shouldn't have been able to do that."

Arthur just looked nonplussed and started to try to stand. Somehow, this movement prompted Leon to move. The knight rushed forward and took Arthur by the arm, helping him up. Once he was standing, Arthur waved him away irritably, as though he did not want to appear weak before his men.

Gwaine barked out a single laugh, and Arthur just looked at him strangely before looking up at Leon.

"What happened?"

Leon just gaped.

"With the battle?" asked Arthur, raising his eyebrows as though Leon had been struck dumb. Then, he took a closer look, squinting at the knight. "Have you been _crying?"_

When Leon didn't answer, Arthur just looked at Merlin again, silently questioning.

Gwaine strode forward, suddenly certain that this was what he needed to do, and heaved Merlin up, hands under his arms. Even upright, Gwaine had to hold Merlin in place for a moment before it apparently occurred to him to stand on his own. At first, he thought that Merlin was too weak to stand, but he was firm on his feet once he was planted properly. It wasn't anything physical that was so immobilizing Merlin. He was afraid of what he had done. Gwaine did not find this a comforting thought.

Merlin took a step forward, apparently unintentionally as he found his feet.

Leon took a step backward, pulling the king with him. From the look on his face, it had been an instinctive move.

Merlin hung his head at Leon's reaction, as though terribly ashamed of himself. He was very pale and still shaking. Gwaine didn't move, lest Merlin's strength give out and he finally collapse. Gwaine just looked at Arthur, still unable to believe his eyes.

Arthur frowned at Leon, clearly taken aback at Leon's yank away from Merlin.

"How did the battle go?" asked Arthur pointedly, clearly disliking his lack of information. "How many men did we lose? I assume that I was injured. Got the wind knocked out of me, from the feel of it. Would you all please stop staring at me and tell me what happened? I'm _fine._"

Still, no one spoke, and Arthur frowned again before taking a closer look at Merlin.

"Your nose is bleeding, by the way," said Arthur.

Merlin wiped his face with his sleeve, averting his eyes.

"So," said Arthur. "This is the last time that I am going to ask before I start yelling, and I really don't want to yell, because I feel like my throat is lined with brambles."

He waited for a moment, then rolled his eyes.

"What the hell happened?"

And Gwaine didn't know what to say.

**.**

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**Thank you for reading! Reviews are always appreciated. This is actually probably/possibly the last one, so feedback would be great. :)**


	11. Finished and thinking of the future!

Hello! This isn't a new chapter, so I'm sorry if anyone opened this up expecting a new reveal fix. This is just an update.

Following the series 5 finale, I've decided to officially end the reveals in "In Media Res." However, this isn't totally the end for me, I think.

I don't want to spoil for anyone who hasn't seen the finale, but I think that I might trade the magical reveal scenarios for…other reveal scenarios about what might happen with Merlin and Arthur _after_ the conclusion of 5x13. I'm not totally positive if I'm going to do it—there are going to be plenty of them out there, I'm sure, and probably better than anything that I could cook up—but I hope that some who might have enjoyed "In Media Res" will follow over to read the next series of one-shots. I'll update whether or not I do so on this chapter.

Either way, thank you for reading, and I hope that you enjoyed my one-shots as much as I enjoyed writing them!


	12. Scenario X - I'm Back!

**Disclaimer: **_**Merlin**_** is not mine. **

Merlin was such a coward.

Well, that's what Arthur liked to tell him, at least. And it wasn't as though Merlin didn't have his share of particularly affecting fears that Arthur usually learned about at extremely inconvenient times. Arthur understood that Merlin had his fears; who wasn't afraid of something sometimes?

But why did it always have to be _sorcery_ that set Merlin running? Why couldn't it have been spiders? Or a fear of tardiness and overdrinking? This was ridiculous. Arthur swore that Merlin would physically tense whenever the subject came up between them. It was as though Merlin thought that a sorcerer was going to just pop up and curse them into oblivion whenever Arthur would mention the word "magic." Arthur could concede that magic _could_ be a rather frightening prospect to face, but _honestly._ Arthur didn't pay Merlin to run off every time someone said a word that rhymed with "sorcery."

Not that there _were_ a lot of words that rhymed with sorcery. And Arthur never made this particular argument with Merlin. It wasn't that he was afraid of offending Merlin; it was just that whenever the topic of Merlin's wages arose between them, Merlin tended to grow sulky and unpleasant. Arthur had told him on more than one occasion that if he would just do half of the work expected of him as the king's manservant, Arthur _might_ consider giving him a raise. But Merlin always retaliated by being tardy and dropping things and serving dishes that Arthur was almost positive had not been retrieved from the butcher. Or cook. So they didn't really talk about it. Arthur wasn't too ashamed of the negligence; while it wasn't exactly admirable that such a basic subject couldn't be discussed between them without a few small resultant revenges, Arthur figured that it was excusable. He and Merlin were so good at communicating openly with one another on all other subjects…so what if they just tried to avoid one every once in a while?

Although there were a few subjects that Arthur would like to throw at Merlin just then, most of them rather...unforgiving. Why did he _always_ have to run when Arthur most needed him? Just because this was the first time that it had ever happened didn't make it any more excusable. Although Arthur had still never quite gotten over Merlin absence at the moment of sudden Uther's death, when Arthur truly could have used the friendly support. But why, this time, had he been in such a hurry to make his escape? Would it have killed him to at least _lie_ about where and why he was going? Lacking any given excuse to rationalize Merlin's absence, no matter how weak, of _course_ Arthur had to jump to cowardice. And it wasn't as though Arthur could have just pushed it out of his mind to focus on more important matters than the degree to which his servant was irritating. Despite the urgency of the situation and the very real danger, Arthur was bored out of his mind. He was _hiding,_ of all things, and hiding seemed to involve an awful lot of inactivity. Even his company wasn't doing much to keep him occupied. He supposed that perhaps his current companions were just better suited to sitting quietly and keeping to themselves than he was.

So Arthur paced about the tower, alone save for Guinevere and a pair of guards, cursing Merlin and wishing very much that he were there with them.

It would have helped if it weren't such a very _small_ tower. Of course, he knew that the size of it was what made it so valuable, but the cramped quarters combined with the silence gave an uncomfortably close atmosphere to the single circular room. Arthur, fully armed and in such a small room that he had to check where the others were when he spun around so as to not whack them with the sheathed sword at his hip, was just about dying to _do_ something.

As long as that something didn't involve thinking about the tower. His heart still sped up in distinct unease when he thought of the decision for them to seek refuge in this place. Guinevere had tried to soothe the nerves, and she had almost succeeded. After all, the positives about hiding up in the tower far outnumbered the negatives. It was a small tower, but the highest of all of those connected to the castle. It overlooked on one side the courtyard and the massive iron gates—usually in disuse, although bolted and fortified on _this_ day—and, other the other side, the training field and edge of the forest. Arthur, once he had brought his queen to safety and begrudgingly acknowledged that it was best for him to remain and _hide_ as well, had had a good view that allowed him to watch as his men finished the fortifications closing off and adding last-minute protective measures to the walls around the citadel and then fled with the rest into the forest.

It was a good plan. Arthur knew that. Anyone who dared attack—magical or not—and discovered an abandoned castle would certainly assume that the king and queen would have fled with the rest. This tower was so easily overlooked that even Arthur had never given it half a thought until his father told him of its potential usefulness. He could count on one hand how many people knew of its importance. It was so negligible that it garnered no attention, but upon crossing the threshold of the single unremarkable door, any attackers would have found a very narrow passage of extremely steep stairs, winding a dizzy path up and up and up until they would come across the thick wooden door. This was not a tower that could be easily stormed. It was too high and too smooth for anyone to scale the walls, with only two windows. They would almost certainly last through this trial unscathed, and Arthur would still be at hand when it was all over to give aid to the citizens of the lower town who hadn't had the chance or ability to flee. And they only needed to make it through the rest of the afternoon and then the night. The moon would wane and the spell would be broken and they would certainly be safe until then.

Almost certainly.

There was one bad thing about the tower, and it was so very bad and had such a very glaring risk that Arthur would have regularly never chanced locking himself up in it. After all, the bad thing was the same as what made the tower so valuable. It was so difficult to get in, but if there were enough enemies, and if they managed to take the corridor…well, then it wouldn't so much be a case of having only one way in as having only one way out.

So _that_ wasn't particularly helping to settle Arthur.

And he felt so strangely…naked. It was one thing to be without Merlin. That was bizarre enough, and to be without Gaius as well made him feel…hollow. Gaius had been available to Arthur since he had been born, and the fact that this whole problem had to do with _sorcery,_ a subject upon which Gaius was probably the most knowledgeable person in the kingdom still living, just made the absence all the more affecting.

But then, if this _didn't_ have to do with sorcery, Arthur wouldn't have had to send Gaius away at all. He'd felt dreadful doing it. Gaius clearly hadn't wanted to leave Arthur's side, but Arthur's gentle insistence was firm. Gaius could use magic, and even if the old physician thought that his powers were insignificant enough to be unaffected by the spell, Arthur couldn't take the chance. So he had given Gaius a horse and supplies and an escort of half a dozen of his men and sent them all to another village until the full moon passed. Still, it had hurt to see Gaius leaving, as though Arthur had _banished_ him…if it hadn't been for Gaius, Arthur wouldn't have even known that there was anything particularly wrong.

But there _was_ something wrong, and Gaius had read the signs that everyone else had missed. Someone, some sorcerer—probably a sorcer_ess_, Arthur thought, knowing his history—had cast a spell over Camelot. Gaius hadn't been able to properly explain how he or she had managed it; apparently, the spell would take a great deal of power to cast and maintain. And then he'd gone off on some speech about talismans and totems and death that Arthur stopped listening to, preoccupied by the implications of this spell. Gaius said that it was a spell that forced all those possessing magic to temporarily lose their free will and adhere to that of he—or she—who had cast the spell. The enchantment would be focused so that those affected would be united in a single purpose. In this case, Gaius supposed, those with magic would be manipulated into attacking the citadel. When Arthur had pointed out that, even counting those among his people who _had_ magic but suppressed it in secret for the sake of their own survival, there couldn't be very many who could do any harm to his castle, Gaius had shaken his head, warning Arthur not to think of fighting against sorcerers the same way that he thought of fighting against soldiers. Against magic, swords and spears lacked the same danger that they did against regular men. Gaius couldn't have said what exactly the perimeter would have been for sorcerers within to be affected, but he said that he was sure that the spell could only be in full effect on the last day before and last night of a moon cycle. If they could just last until dawn…

So Arthur had ordered a reluctant evacuation for the day and sent Gaius away, instructing him privately that—if he knew of any servants or knights in the castle who happened to possess magic secretly—he should take them with him, even if he couldn't tell Arthur, for everyone's safety. Gaius had looked so taken aback and truly shaken by Arthur's instruction that Arthur had almost wished that Merlin had been in Camelot for to go with Gaius, just so that the old man might have someone close to lean upon. This stress couldn't have been good for him.

But then again, even if Merlin _had_ been there, if he _had_ returned from his errand to one of the outlying villages before any of this had come to light, Arthur still probably wouldn't have sent Merlin with the physician. Gaius would have escorts…and Arthur would need Merlin. He didn't know how, exactly, but he would need Merlin for _something._

As it happened, Arthur was spared the dilemma of allowing Gaius the company of his surrogate son or keeping him by his own side. Merlin returned from his trip to fetch herbs collected and dried specially by a woman in an outlying village shortly _after_ Gaius had departed. From the look on Merlin's face when he returned to Arthur, he'd been fairly confused to see the controlled chaos as people were abandoning their posts and heading for the forest, having left on his errand before the sun had properly risen that morning. Arthur didn't have the _chance_ to ask if Merlin was confused, however. Merlin happened to walk into the council chambers just as Arthur was briefing his chief knights on the particulars of the situation, many of which had been withheld from the public for fear of spreading panic. While most servants probably would have been mortified and apologetic at having barged in on an intimate meeting between the king and his closest advisors, Merlin had just given a mildly conciliatory wave and taken his place behind Arthur, not even bothering to look as though he wasn't eavesdropping. Arthur was past caring. Merlin eavesdropping would save Arthur the trouble of having to repeat it all again to him later in private. The knights were all accustomed to it anyway.

So Merlin had stood in the background, listening intently as Arthur told his men of the spell that had been cast, the spell that would turn the mind of every magic possessor within a certain unknown perimeter against the king and Camelot. He'd sensed Merlin tensing nervously at the information and nearly rolled his eyes. Merlin was such a coward about magic! But Arthur had more important things to do than tease his servant for his fears. He told his men that all sorcerers—even if they happened to live the quiet lives of regular people and did not practice their magic—would attack at full power, whether they liked it or not, voicing Gaius' theory that whoever had cast this spell had chosen it for the purpose of pointedly inflicting upon Arthur the power that the Pendragons had expended so much time and energy eradicating to the most violent of extremes.

His men took it all in stride, although Arthur saw that none of them were particularly inclined to argue in favor of remaining at the castle. Entering into a siege against an army was one thing; entering into a siege against unknown sorcery was a potential disaster. Evacuation of the castle was the safest measure. Arthur had learned to his dismay that being king meant choosing safety; risks were for princes. Yes, everyone seemed to take it all in stride.

That is, they all seemed to take it in stride until Arthur closed the meeting by mentioning that Gaius had said that the spell would take effect at sundown. No sooner had those words left his mouth than did Merlin rush out of the room. From the brief look that he got of his face, Arthur saw that Merlin's eyes were wide and panicky, and it was then that Arthur realized that Merlin hadn't been present when Arthur had mentioned that this all was going to happen _today._ Arthur had already had time to absorb the danger, and the calmness with which he was addressing the men had apparently lessened the sense of urgency in Merlin. Even the evacuation didn't seem too harried at that point. So when Merlin had heard that they only had until sundown…Arthur supposed that Merlin was allowed a moment of panic. His greatest fear was sorcery, and Arthur couldn't begrudge him the instinct to avoid it altogether. The shock of knowing that these magic attacks would occur in a matter of hours was sure to take him aback. So he'd assumed that Merlin had rushed out to get some fresh air or vomit or scream until he cleared his mind. He'd _assumed_ that Merlin would be back shortly.

Curious, Arthur had trailed after Merlin after dismissing the knights, the briefing concluded anyway. Merlin was not waiting in the anteroom or even walking back. He must have been truly shaken, Arthur realized, not yet frantic enough at the situation to be dismissive of Merlin's state of mind. So he'd walked to the long outdoor corridor that overlooked the castle courtyard, a rarely used hallway in which he knew that Merlin sometimes took the breaks that he decided to allot for himself.

Merlin wasn't there. Arthur had sighed and run his hands through his hair before looking out over the courtyard, watching as the final civilian workers hastened from the semicircle toward the paths that would lead them away from the castle. Even with the headstart of nearly six hours, Arthur was somewhat surprised that there wasn't at least a bit of panicky rushing amongst them. He was oddly proud of their comportment, even as he knew that even _he_ couldn't take credit for their fortitude. He had smiled to himself.

And he had kept smiling to himself for nearly half of a second, before there was a clattering of hooves, somehow amplified into echoes in the emptied courtyard, as a horse was driven hard across the stones and out of the gate, not yet heaved shut. It was Merlin. It was Merlin on _Arthur's horse,_ the poor beast already nearly frothing at the mouth. Arthur had opened his mouth to shout but hadn't even had the chance to get past the inhalation before Merlin was past the wall, the furious pace of the horse having carried him faster than it should have had to. The only time that Merlin turned and gave Arthur a full view of his face, grim and serious and somehow alien in its determination on his face, was when Merlin reined the horse, digging his heels in and turning it. Merlin looked at the gates, still ajar, and seemed to be speaking at them. Arthur didn't know why the hell Merlin would be doing _that,_ although he supposed that he might have mistaken it for Merlin speaking to the horse. The afternoon light was shining into Arthur's eyes and what little lipreading skills that he possessed were failing him; from the way that Merlin's mouth moved, Arthur couldn't identify any of the words. It must have been the sunlight, Arthur told himself. And Merlin was speaking to the horse, surely. Why the hell would Merlin be talking to the gates and walls? Arthur was just tired.

Then Merlin was gone and Arthur didn't have any vision to wonder at.

Arthur hadn't known how he felt about the whole thing. There was the anger at the abandonment, the anger that Merlin would steal _Arthur's_ horse, the anger that Merlin was apparently set on driving the poor thing half to death in his haste to flee the city. There was the disappointment that Merlin, who had stood by his side in so many more dangerous situations, didn't have it in him to stay this time. There was the pity that Merlin had so instinctively fled. And there was a curiosity that Arthur couldn't quite place, a knowledge that none of this fit what he knew of Merlin's character and that there had to be more to what was happening than what it seemed…but that hadn't been the proper time for feeling. So, he'd cursed at an invisible Merlin, said a silent prayer for his horse—which he was certain that Merlin had taken because it was by far the fastest in the stable—and set off to find his wife.

So now they were up in the tower and the sun was blazing the orange that meant that it was on the verge of setting and there wasn't much else to do but _feel._ Arthur wished that night would hurry up and fall so that he could keep watch for attacking sorcerers without having to think about his feelings.

He wished Merlin was there, and he didn't like thinking about that either.

Fortunately, the orange of the end of the day soon turned into a purpling dimness that meant that soon there would be only starlight for Arthur to be able to see anything. They couldn't even have a torch up in their tower; the light would give away their position immediately. Still, Arthur knew that his eyes would adjust quickly enough.

The sun wasn't wholly set before the first showed up.

Arthur recognized her, and wished with all of his heart that he hadn't. She was a shopkeeper from the lower village. She sold cloth or candles or some other harmless thing. Arthur couldn't recall her name—he'd probably never known it—but he remembered her kind eyes from his tours through the lower village. He couldn't even recall their color...only the kindness with which she had regarded him. The way that she'd looked at him made him ache in a way that made him wish—even now, as a grown man and king—that he had had a mother. Oh, how he wished that he hadn't recognized her…

But her eyes weren't kindly. Not then. They weren't anything that Arthur recognized. They were…gold, and Arthur had shivered. He had seen the glimmer of brightness in the eyes of sorcerers as they had done magic in the past, of course, but it was always fleeting, a sort of unnatural twinkling that was just brief enough to be unsettling rather than frightening. But now…her eyes didn't fade back into brown or blue or whatever they ought to have been. They didn't become kindly. They were just…gold, unchanging and steady. In the darkness, it was one of the eeriest sights that Arthur had ever seen. In the back of his mind, he wondered if he would have thought this beautiful if it had happened in a time before the Purge.

It wasn't long before a handful of others joined her. Fortunately, it was dark enough that Arthur could focus on their silhouettes and unceasingly glowing eyes-some of which seemed brighter than others, which Arthur guessed had to do with levels of power-without trying to recognize who they were. Together, six of them, they stood before the solid iron gates, arms extended with palms at a right angle, staring straight ahead. A few sparks began to jump from the bars and the hinges, and Arthur understood: they couldn't get through the gates. He'd heaved a sigh of relief, exhaling a breath that he hadn't realized that he'd been holding. But something seemed off, and it nagged at him. Why couldn't they get through the gates? He could have understood if maybe the kindly woman hadn't been able to do it on her own. After all, he _did_ know that sorcerers varied in power. But there were half a dozen of them now. Glad as he was that they hadn't breached the wall, Arthur squirmed with a sense of vague discomfort. Why couldn't they break the gate? It was only iron…and even if they couldn't scale the walls, the impromptu spikes erected hurriedly on top apparently serving their intended purpose, they should have made it in by now. This was _good,_ Arthur knew, but it wasn't right…

More came, wandering down the main road of the lower town on unsteady legs, staggering. From what Arthur could see of their garb, they were farmfolk. They had walked from outside the town. The perimeter apparently stretched beyond the town of Camelot.

The greyness of evening turned to the blue of night, and more came, eyes glowing enough to allow Arthur to maintain a sense of their numbers. He looked anxiously for Gaius, hoping that he'd gotten far enough from the citadel to have avoided becoming one of the attackers. Arthur wouldn't have held it against him, but he knew that Gaius wouldn't be quite so forgiving of himself. Fortunately, even as the gaggle of sorcerers attempting to break through the gate grew into a full dozen, Gaius was still absent.

More sparks flew with the twelve working at the same purpose, and he heard the gates rattle on their hinges from time to time. They were assembled with a sort of disarming precision, in three rows of four, forming a solid block of twelve. There was a sort of hushed humming that Arthur couldn't place for nearly half of an hour before it occurred to him that what he was hearing was the language of the Old Religion that the sorcerers were using, speaking in eerie unison the same spell to break the gate. As soon as he made the realization, Arthur wished that he hadn't. Even as he didn't understand them, he could not unhear the repeated streams of words, and he wanted to cover his ears.

He wasn't sure how long he stood there, watching and listening and wishing that he would do the smart thing for once and sit the hell down and hold his wife's hand and wait patiently for the night to end. All he knew was that night had fully fallen and the moon was bright and the stars all apparent by the time that the thirteenth person came upon the scene.

Despite the unlikelihood of the situation, Arthur recognized him at once, even with his face downcast and facing the ground as he walked.

"Merlin," he breathed, somehow terribly uneasy at the reappearance. It wasn't entirely atypical of Merlin to have a change of heart and choose his devotion to Arthur over his own fears, and it certainly shouldn't have surprised him that Merlin would risk sorcery and walk right up to the castle. Arthur could even concede that there was some logic in the straightforwardness of Merlin's return; these sorcerers had been directed to attack Arthur and Camelot and were not permitted deviation. Merlin was probably safe.

But from the way that he walked, his steps determined and even, almost _stalking,_ Merlin didn't look as though he was bothering to even be cautious. Arthur knew that Merlin was loyal to Arthur to the point of stupidity, but a bit of skulking and stealth wouldn't have hurt. Although _how_ Merlin thought that he was going to get into the castle was beyond Arthur…

That wasn't the only thing that was wrong, and it took a moment for Arthur to realize the oddity. Merlin had fled on horseback, but he was now on foot. The horse must have thrown a shoe or gone lame somehow. Just because he was the king's horse and treated with more care and consideration than most of the people in Camelot didn't meant that something could have happen and lamed the poor thing. It wasn't as though Merlin would have dismounted and tied the horse so that he'd have to walk back to Camelot. That would take so much more time, and Merlin would surely make haste if he were to return to Arthur…

What good did Merlin think that he could do? Arthur appreciated the gesture, and it was certainly enough for him to begin thinking about forgiving Merlin the afternoon's flight from the citadel, but it didn't make sense. Despite Arthur's vocal insistences to the contrary, the king knew that Merlin wasn't an idiot. Surely Merlin would have known that he wouldn't have been much help to Arthur at this point, even if he _could_ find a way in without letting any of the sorcerers in as well. What on earth was he thinking?

As Merlin approached the gate, his gait still unwavering, the dozen sorcerers stopped speaking for the first time in hours. As one they all turned to face the approaching Merlin. Arthur's heart turned cold. It was only out of concern for Guinevere and a knowledge that it wouldn't have done any good anyway that Arthur was able to keep himself from breaking cover and shouting out a warning. Yet even in his fear for Merlin, something was wrong. Why were the sorcerers acknowledging Merlin's presence? They'd been impervious to all other interruptions.

Reasons began to fly through Arthur's mind, rationalizing even as he leaned out the window, wanting Merlin to be alright. They sensed someone coming at them from behind and assumed that he meant to do them ill, so they would attack him. They thought that he might be another sorcerer approaching and turned to welcome him, but they would see that he was not and so they would attack him. They would recognize him as Arthur's servant and recall the closeness that had become rather infamous across the five kingdoms and, in lieu of an available king, so they would attack him. They would do this, they would do that, they would do this and that, and so they would attack him, and Arthur couldn't do a damn thing about it beyond lean out that window and wish that somehow his proximity would give Merlin the strength of mind to come to his senses and run.

Then, for the first time since his silhouette had appeared, Merlin looked up. And Arthur nearly fell out of the window.

Merlin's eyes were golden, blazing somehow much more brightly than all of the other sorcerers' eyes, although Arthur distantly thought that he must have just been imagining the difference out of his surprise.

Instantly, Arthur started frantically rationalizing once more. Gaius had been wrong and the spell affected everyone and Merlin had been caught and he was normal and it wasn't his fault. This wasn't Merlin and the sorcerers had conjured up a doppleganger in the hopes that Arthur would open the gates for him and Merlin was normal and it wasn't his fault. This was a trick, designed to frighten Arthur out of hiding, and Merlin was normal and it wasn't his fault. It was too dark and Arthur was wrong and it wasn't Merlin because Merlin was normal and it wasn't his fault. This wasn't Merlin because it couldn't be Merlin because Merlin was normal and this couldn't be his fault. It just couldn't.

But Arthur knew.

The spell hadn't affected any other normal people; Merlin couldn't be the exception. But no sorcerers should have bothered casting this massive spell if they could just make a copy of Merlin; Merlin had practically full access to the king, and a doppleganger Merlin wouldn't have had trouble finding a way to kill Arthur. But it couldn't be a trick, because Arthur wasn't an _idiot_ and, as infamous as was the bond between the pair, no one thought so little of Arthur to assume that he'd open the gate for every wayward servant who chose such an inopportune moment to return. But this couldn't not be Merlin, because Arthur knew Merlin, he _knew_ Merlin, and this was Merlin, and so Merlin wasn't normal and this inopportune return and these glowing eyes must have been his fault.

Mustn't they?

Merlin had magic. Didn't that eclipse everything else? Wasn't the magic more than Merlin? Everything was changed now, surely. Merlin wasn't the same anymore. _Arthur_ wasn't the same anymore. It was all changed, all different, and there was nothing that anyone could do about it and…

A shiver ran through Arthur's whole body, and he came back to himself enough to inch his way back into the safety of the windowsill. He hadn't been able to blink since he'd first seen the gold in Merlin's eyes, and he was distantly aware that he was tearing up in the cold night air.

Still, Arthur did not blink. And he sure as hell didn't look away.

And because he didn't look away, he saw as the dozen sorcerers parted for Merlin, bowing their heads in something that so resembled an absurd show of respect that Arthur nearly laughed aloud. His heart was beating very quickly.

Merlin stood, flanked by six sorcerers on each side. He hadn't looked at any of them and seemed almost oblivious to their presence as he positioned himself in front of the heavy iron gates. He just remained standing, stock still, and closed his eyes for what felt to Arthur like an eternity.

Then he opened his eyes, and in that instant, Arthur realized why the other sorcerers hadn't been able to break down the gates, and he knew that he had not been wrong when he had seen Merlin speaking to the gates earlier that afternoon. Merlin had enchanted the gates to keep them closed against magic. Arthur was sure of it.

Then, just as Arthur realized the implications of that possibility, Merlin's eyes somehow glowed even more brightly gold. He pointed one hand in front of him, fingertips quivering. He never said a word.

And the gates blasted off of their hinges, screeching with painful volume as they skidded across the courtyard, tearing up chunks of stone and drawing sparks as they did.

"Oh," said Arthur, very softly.

Instantly, Guinevere was at his side at the window, and Arthur felt the two guards hovering behind them. Of course. They had heard the destruction of the gates. Hell, the hiding knights and peasants in the middle of the forest had probably heard it.

"What?" hissed Guinevere, clearly laboring to keep her voice low and not betray their position and she elbowed him for a better look. "What on earth—"

Then she saw Merlin.

"Oh," said Guinevere. She began to shake, but Arthur couldn't bring himself to try to give her any comfort. He just couldn't. Too much else was happening, and his brain was fighting with itself, trying desperately to focus on two very important things at the same time. There was so much danger that he couldn't focus on what was worst...

_Merlin has magic, _he thought.

_The gates are open, _he remembered.

_Merlin has magic. _

_The gates are open._

_Merlin has magic and the gates are open…_

Arthur's breath caught in his throat, and he was just about to give in and weep or shout or curse or throw something or do whatever he needed to do to deal with Merlin having magic, even in the knowledge that Merlin having magic was the less pressing of his issues, when he registered the sight of the first twelve sorcerers streaming past the threshold, all still staggering unsteadily and all heading in random directions across the grounds. But that thirteenth sorcerer, _Merlin…_he crossed the threshold without so much as swaying, and he strode purposely across the damaged courtyard, magically hurling open the front doors to the palace and entering without a moment's hesitation.

And then, all at once, a single thought overcame all of the others in his mind in an instant of terrible clarity. Merlin knew the castle and Merlin knew Arthur and, even though Arthur could count on one hand all of the people who knew about this tower, Merlin was one of them and he knew where Arthur would go in a situation like this.

Arthur took several deep breaths. It didn't matter that Merlin had magic, even if he was powerful enough to stop all of the others from breaking down the gates and then powerful enough to bust them to pieces with a blink. Well, in a way, that was _all_ that mattered just then, but he could focus on how he hadn't _known_ about Merlin's magic and the lengths to which Merlin must have gone to keep the secret at some later time. Right now, it didn't matter so much that Merlin had broken a few laws and a few confidences. That was hardly the important point just then. The point was that Merlin wasn't himself and Merlin was dangerous.

Guinevere seemed to realize it as well. She turned and looked at Arthur, and he could see out of the corner of his eye the sharpness of her features. The worry. The fear. Then, after a moment of gazing at her husband, her face softened, and she took a deep breath.

"Arthur?" she asked, putting her hand in his. He appreciated the warmth, and he squeezed desperately, needing to hold onto something. "What do you want us to do?"

A rush of gratitude rushed through him, loving her for how she loved him enough to know that the only way that he would be able to get through this was to put on his figurative crown and be a king and be a bossy leader and pretend that he wasn't upset about his friend and too confused to just be a man.

Still, he didn't know how to answer her question. He didn't _want_ them to do anything. Except maybe wake up from a communal dream. But he knew that he was awake and that this was real and he needed to make a decision.

Arthur closed his eyes, knowing that Merlin had enchanted the gates to try to keep him safe, knowing that Merlin had fled that afternoon not to keep his own secret but to protect Arthur from his own powers, knowing that Merlin was on foot because he'd left the horse on purpose to slow any possible return to the castle, knowing that Merlin had done what he could to protect them from himself...and knowing that, just then, Merlin wasn't Merlin. Merlin didn't have his own mind. But Merlin was powerful, Merlin knew where they were, and Merlin was too powerful…

And Merlin was coming for them.

The king opened his eyes.

"Arthur?" said Guinevere, softly prompting once more. "What do we do?"

"What do we do?" repeated Arthur, suddenly very calm. "I suppose that we run."

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**So, I guess that I lied when I said that I was totally done with reveals! This came to me and I just wanted to write it. It might be kind of boring with all of the thinking and monologues and _length_, but I liked the imagery. Please review!**

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**ETA: I've decided to continued this scenario. It will probably be three or four chapters and called "When Blue Was Gold." Please read! :)**


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